XIX

I HATE THIS. THIS SENSE of overwhelming helplessness. The feeling of being awed and dismayed, all at once.

If the outside of the Catenan Arena was impressive, the inside is nothing short of magisterial. We emerge from the great, arched, echoing tunnel into stands that stretch and stretch and stretch, stone benches curving around in a great oval that heaves with white motion and noise. In the middle of it all is an enormous lake, murky water sloshing and slurping at its containing barriers, the smell of salt mingling with a thousand other, less-pleasant aromas.

Ships moored to temporary docks tower nearby, blocking some of the view. Biremes surround a massive trireme, bobbing as they’re swarmed by men and women making preparations. I can see a similar fleet on the far side of the Arena; at first glance I think it’s smaller, but a more intent inspection suggests it’s simply the distance. They’re a mile away across the water, at least. I have to squint to make out the individuals on their decks.

Though the sun has sunk low enough that the walls now hide it from view, everything is brilliantly lit. There are lanterns on long poles at regular intervals in the stands, and countless candles are already held by eager spectators ready to celebrate the God of Light. High above the water, thousands of dark points hang suspended in mid-air, littering the fading sky. More lanterns, I realise. Suspended by Will, as yet unlit.

I’m buffeted by the crowd as Aequa grabs my arm and pulls, clearly not as shocked by the enormity of it all. I stumble on behind her, trying to calculate. How much Will was used to create all this? How much time and effort and engineering would it have taken to funnel this much water from the harbour? To build these ships? Even just to hold those lanterns aloft?

All for a spectacle. A frivolity meant purely to entertain.

Or, as my father would have insisted, to distract.

Aequa and I let ourselves be pushed along for a while; only the eastern entrances are open today—the others all sealed off to help contain the water, presumably—and our seats are on the opposite side. It’s long minutes before we’re descending toward the very front benches. Red-uniformed Praetorians patrol this area, eyeing newcomers from behind their reflective dark glasses. There’s no mistaking the vicious slivers of glimmering, jagged obsidian hanging at their sides. The Razors are carved by their own hands and imbued with Will. There are more efficient weapons in the Hierarchy, but none as terrifying.

We receive a long glance from the guard nearest us, but Aequa’s attire seems enough to convince him of our right to be here. He passes without stopping, and the clenching of my stomach eases a little.

We settle on a cushioned bench next to a middle-aged couple, who ignore us and continue arguing about whether holding the naumachia is worth shutting down the local baths in order to redirect water here. We’re later than many, and a lot of the seats in the stadium are already filled. The ages of the crowd range from at least ten years my junior, to men and women too elderly to find their seats unassisted. It’s as if the entire city has come.

“Will there be anyone else from the Academy here?”

“I can’t imagine so. Most of us got tired of these things when we were children.”

“Including you, I take it?” It’s a fairly plain jab from Aequa, but I continue the amiable façade.

“Yes.”

“Did your parents bring you?”

“Tisiphone did, a few times.” She shifts at my questioning look. “One of our Octavii. My mother’s a Sextus, and she was away a lot, so…”

I feel a flicker of sympathy. Not an uncommon practice, as I understand it, for high-ranking Catenans to leave raising their children to an educated Octavii.

“Siblings?”

“None we officially recognise.” Her tone’s too careless to be unaffected.

“Ah.” A lonely life, then. One probably plagued by worry about the illegitimate children her father has produced, especially if they’re male.

Silence falls between us, and I take the opportunity to scan the crowd. No one appears to be paying me any particular attention. I clench a frustrated fist by my side. We’re too exposed, here at the front. Far too prominent for Sedotia to make an approach, even if she knows where I am.

The eager chatter is steadily swelling to a dull, smothering roar; everyone’s animated, enthusiastic, anticipating. I hear words like glory and victory and hero. Bets being taken on who will win, who will fall, and who will take the prize for most “kills.”

“So how does this work?” I already know, for the most part, from my lessons at Suus, but an orphan from Letens wouldn’t have as clear an idea. I indicate the lines of armoured men boarding the ships nearby. “Those weapons look like proper steel. How do they uphold Birthright out there?”

“Their armour’s Conditionally imbued. Too much damage in the wrong areas, and it drags them out of the fight.”

“But there are thousands of them.” It’s not an exaggeration, if the same number of fighters are embarking on the opposite side of the Arena. “What if one gets stabbed in the face? Or falls overboard, or—”

“Obviously some will see a shameful end,” Aequa interjects impatiently, making it sound like she’s describing the weather. “That’s what makes it so tense to watch, after all. And there will be a lot of injuries. But most who fall will survive for the Sappers.” She must see something in my expression, because she makes a conciliatory motion. “They are mostly convicted criminals, Vis. Birthright doesn’t technically even apply to them.”

I repress a surge of revulsion and nod, as if her explanation’s perfectly acceptable. Aequa likely has no idea what the Sappers are really like, given my impression that few in the Hierarchy do, but it’s a cold assessment. For a time, Ulciscor’s villa isolated me from this world. These people. With only Lanistia and Kadmos for company, and those two focused only on my training, it’s been easy to forget their ugly realities.

“How will they find the Sappers for so many at once?” I know she won’t know the answer—the source of the Hierarchy’s supply has always been a mystery, its limits known only to a few in the Senate—but I’m curious to see what she thinks.

“No idea.”

When it’s clear she’s not interested in expounding, I stand. “I’d like to walk around a little, before it all begins. Stretch my legs. Take it all in.” I have to at least give the Anguis an opportunity to reach out to me.

Aequa moves as if to rise as well. “Alright.”

I cough. “And… I need to locate a toilet.”

She rolls her eyes and sinks back into her seat, the need to relieve oneself apparently beneath her. “You have about twenty minutes.”

I leave, making careful note of where our seats are, then move out of sight and start to wander. Every face is a stranger’s, and there are so many.

A minute passes. Two. This was a mistake. I could have bartered for anything. Forced Advenius to guarantee my safety after the Academy, somehow. Or refused to train with Aequa at all. But here I am. Roaming the Will-cast paths of the Hierarchy’s greatest monument, just another member of the Catenan mob.

I’m so lost in my frustrations, I don’t notice the pressure on my shoulder at first.

It takes me a moment to recognise Sedotia. In the light of the burning Transvect she was fierce and cold. Here she’s well-dressed, prim and half-hidden behind a veil. Married, then, or pretending to be for anonymity. She looks smaller. Wan, even, beneath the rosy glow of the lantern-light.

“Come with me.”

“How did you find me?”

“Come with me.” She sees my hesitation, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, there’s no doubting the seriousness of what she’s saying. “Now.”

I don’t argue. We move through the crowd without talking. I can’t help but cast an anxious glance over my shoulder, back toward where I know Aequa is sitting, but I needn’t have worried. Our seats are well out of sight.

“I can’t be long.”

“I know.” Her stare is withering. “It would have been better if you’d come alone.”

“Oh. I should have thought of that.” I slap myself lightly in the forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sedotia’s not amused. “You’ll be back in your seat before everything starts.”

We’re heading through a passageway into the covered outer ring of the Arena and then down a set of stairs, travelling against the flow of the majority. At first I think Sedotia plans to leave entirely, but before I can voice my concern, we’re turning aside and descending another staircase, this one cleverly hidden from the public concourse and barely wide enough to allow a single person. Nobody else is coming or going, but we aren’t spared a passing glance by anyone hurrying by. They’re all rushing to be in their seats in time.

“Where are we going?” My voice echoes off stone. Ahead, I can hear trickling. My nostrils flare and I cough at the fetid smell.

“To meet someone.” We’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, which end abruptly in a four-foot-high hole that opens into a long, low, arched tunnel. Water—or some kind of liquid—sloshes along inside it.

Sedotia leans down and reaches into an inconspicuous cavity in the wall, emerging with a hand full of cloth. She tosses the threadbare tunic to me. “Before we go any farther, you need to change clothes.”

“What? Why would I… oh.”

She nods. “Anything Ulciscor’s given you, you need to leave here. It’s for the best anyway. Whatever you wear isn’t going to come out smelling particularly pleasant.”

I don’t bother to argue; I wouldn’t put it past Lanistia to track me. I pull my tunic over my head.

“Your side’s healed well.”

I concur absently. “The staples came out a couple of weeks ago.”

“Lucky.” When I glance askance at her, she adds, “We would have had to remove them, too.”

I stiffen as the implication settles, then continue dressing. I hadn’t considered that. Veridius was the one who applied them.

“Leave your sandals here as well—they’ll just get the smell in them.”

I do as I’m told, grimacing as I follow the young woman into the sewer. It’s cold and slimy beneath my bare feet, sludge seeping between my toes. I try not to think about what it consists of. The stench that worried my nostrils earlier attacks now, an assault that threatens to leave me hacking and heaving at every unwilling breath. The walls glisten, sweating in the dim and dank. I do my best not to brush against them. I’m not entirely convinced that’s just water, either.

“Stay quiet. These ways will be flooded in a few hours, but there might still be workers around.” Sedotia wades ahead of me. Careful amid the muck. Most of the women I’ve known would be gagging and forcing every step, if they’d even made it down this far.

“Flooded?”

“When the naumachia finishes.”

There’s an itch of unease as I understand. Once the spectacle above is done, the Hierarchy will waste no time in draining the artificial lake. And these are the sewers they’ll use to flush all that water back into the harbour.

We press on through calf-deep streams, each step cautious on the sludge-slick stone. It’s hard to see more than a few paces ahead, most of the time, the illumination of the streets above—we’re out past the walls of the Arena, by this point—barely reflecting down through small grates at the end of long, narrow pipes. Talking and singing and laughter echoes, bouncing around the low-arching tunnel system, surrounding us. The only sounds we make are small, lapping splashes.

It’s a maze down here, but we’re only walking for a minute when Sedotia pulls up short, gesturing to a side opening. Past her, I can see there’s orange light shimmering against the greasy stone wall, brighter than anything cast by the festivities above.

I bend almost double to slide under the low archway. A torch dribbles dying embers from where it’s affixed to the wall, revealing another stairwell that disappears upward about thirty feet away. This area’s slightly raised and the sewage is only ankle-deep here, though the smell is no better.

Sitting casually one step above the sludge is a man, features half-hidden in shadow. Plainly dressed and apparently comfortable, despite our surroundings. The way he’s lounging indicates a kind of bored confidence.

He uncoils as Sedotia ducks under the opening to join me. He’s probably my height, but the extra step means he’s peering down at us. I still can’t see his face properly.

“Diago.” His voice is smooth and deep. It resonates in the cramped space.

I won’t risk admitting it, not out loud. Not even down here in the dark among Caten’s putrescence. “My name is Vis.”

“Of course.” There’s humour in the words. A clear indication that we both know I’m lying, but he’s happy to let me pretend. “And I am Melior.”

He steps forward. Down off his perch, into the muck with us, revealing his features. He’s perhaps forty, a dusting of grey in both his close-cropped hair and light beard. Lantern-jawed, sun-browned skin a dark gold in the light.

And I recognise him. Not who he is, straight away, but there’s an immediate sense of familiarity, confusion as my mind tries to separate face from surroundings. I say nothing for several seconds, the man waiting patiently.

Then, finally, it hits.

“Estevan?” He’s older, more grizzled and worse-dressed, and the beard is new. But it’s Estevan. A man I never had a lot to do with, but he’s from Suus—one of my father’s most trusted advisors, and as fiercely against the Hierarchy as any of them. Someone I assumed would be either dead or in a Sapper, after the invasion.

“May I call you Diago now?”

“Vek. Rotting gods. I… vek.” I’m grinning. Laughing. I step forward to embrace him, but he wards me off.

“Sorry. Hard to explain, but don’t come any closer.” He smiles at me. “It is good to see you, though, my prince.”

There’s a hard lump in my throat at the title. “You too, Estevan. Vek. You too.” There are a thousand questions spinning in my head, my absence from the naumachia suddenly a secondary concern. “How did you get out? Are there any others with you? How did you find me?” I squint at him. “Are you really Melior?” Sedotia knowing my identity suddenly makes a lot more sense.

“I am. I needed safe harbour, after Suus, and the Anguis needed the information and connections I could provide. It’s been a good match.” He glances at Sedotia, who has been watching the exchange with interest. The young woman shakes her head. Estevan sighs. “As for the rest, Highness, it will need to wait until we have more time. There are more urgent things to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Your helping us.”

We watch each other, some of my giddy joy fading as I remember why I’m here. Ripples slosh up against the stone.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Now he’s willing to listen,” mutters Sedotia from behind me.

“We need you to be Domitor at the Academy, or as close as you can get. Then when you graduate, pick any position you like that places you in Caten, but with either Religion or Governance. Not Military.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s obviously not all. But for now, it’s what we need you to do.”

I consider, and the silence stretches. I know my answer almost immediately, though.

“I’m sorry, Estevan.” I truly am.

My father’s old friend frowns. “Don’t you want to fight?”

“Not the way I know you want me to.” Half explanation, half weary remonstrance. I don’t want to anger the Anguis, but Estevan’s presence has disarmed me, compels me to be candid. In fact, this might be the most honest thing I’ve said in months.

“I told you. A broken blade,” murmurs Sedotia.

Estevan ignores her, keeps his eyes on me. Curious rather than indignant. “Why not?”

I consider my answer. I desperately want him to understand.

“About six months after Suus, I was travelling through Tensia. There was this little village on a hillside. Aiobhinn. A hundred people, maybe—mostly farmers, only four Septimii. I had no money, no food. No identification. They had to know what Catenan law demanded, but instead they fed me, let me sleep under a roof, and turned a blind eye when I pocketed some coin they’d left lying around. It wasn’t much, but it kept me going when I was ready to give up. I managed to stay out of Catenan orphanages for more than another year because of that one experience.”

I hesitate. Not sure if this level of honesty is a good idea, but I plough on anyway. “I came back, about half a year later. It was almost harvest, and I thought that they might have some work. When I got there, the Anguis had just raided them. Half of the village was burned to the ground. The children and wife of the man who had taken me in were busy burying him. And everyone was lining up to talk to the proconsul. To give him the descriptions of the men who had attacked them, and beg him for Caten’s protection.” I’ve been staring at the water around my ankles as I talk, but now I look up, meeting Estevan’s gaze. “So I left, because I knew what would happen this time. The Anguis aren’t winning hearts, Estevan—you’re hardening them. I’m not sure what the answer is, what the alternative is, but… your way doesn’t work. And I want no part of it.”

I fall silent. Done. He wanted to know, and now he knows.

“They were Hierarchy. They were our enemies long before they were attacked,” says Sedotia quietly.

“They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” Estevan has just been listening thoughtfully but he stirs at that, offended. “Were they not Octavii and Septimii, ceding their Will to Caten, for Caten’s purposes?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then they were participants and by definition, shared guilt.”

“They didn’t have a choice.”

“Did you? Did she, or I?” There’s an unmoveable force behind Estevan’s words, his voice stone grinding against stone. “Or should we not hold others to the standards to which we hold ourselves? Anyone who does not resist them, Diago, is lending them their strength. Is complicit in all that they do. The Octavii are not just guilty—they hoist the entire Hierarchy on their shoulders. I would think that you, above all others, would have reason to hate them for that.”

“And I do.” The admission snaps out rawer than I intend, almost a snarl. I bring myself back. Calm. “But I can hate without it coming to violence.”

“Hate is its own violence, my prince. Your only choice is whether to let it hurt them, or you.” The older man considers. Sighs. “Very well. I’m not going to threaten you. But I’m not going to give up on you, either.” He turns and steps back up onto the ledge, out of the water. “Have you ever wondered why the Republic attacked, that day?”

“Of course. All the time.” I frown. “But we were the last ones to hold out. I assume someone in Military got impatient, and—”

“No.” Estevan’s face is covered in shadow again, but I can hear the conviction. “For an extra ten thousand pieces to prop up their pyramids, when they already had twenty million? No. All Caten had to do was sit back and let their propaganda take effect. You were there—you know it’s true. Sooner or later, your father would have had to sign something, or face revolution. Maybe not right away. Maybe not for another five, ten years. But eventually.” He crosses his arms. “So why do it? Why risk resistance, potentially having to kill the very people they wanted as Octavii? And then why kill your family?”

Because they fear what we know. One of the last things my father said to me as we fled that night through the palace’s secret tunnels, after I asked him much the same thing. Something I’ve tried not to dwell on these past three years. He could have meant anything. And he never got to explain further.

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Estevan takes a breath. “It won’t be long before you do as well, Diago. And I hope that will change your mind enough to join us.” He glances at Sedotia, who signals to him. “Our time is up. Keep in mind what I’ve said. Victims can still be enemies.” He moves to depart through the way behind him.

“Estevan? Be careful. I overheard Magnus Telimus talking about you. About Melior. It sounds like the Senate are confident they’re going to catch you soon.”

He lingers at the base of the stairs. Doesn’t turn, but a soft chuckle echoes off the walls ahead of him. “Thank you, Highness.”

He leaves.

The meeting over, I turn to Sedotia, who jerks her head toward the low archway. “Let’s get you back. It will be starting soon.” Her voice is taut. She’s displeased with the outcome of my conversation.

I follow her, wading once more into the flowing murk. We just walk for a minute, tense. My eyes have adjusted enough to see the deliberateness with which she places her feet, this time. The occasional slip that she’s almost a half-step too slow to recover from. The way she has to pause afterward, her eyes struggling to track, wobbling as she balances.

“How did you knock out Ulciscor, back at the Transvect?”

“You heard Melior. If you want answers, you know what you have to do.”

“Worth a try.”

We reach the base of the way up. Sedotia rummages inside the hidden cavity and this time emerges with a full waterskin and rough chunk of soap. I strip my half-sodden tunic and sit on a stair, hurriedly scrubbing my legs and feet, then using the dry upper part of the tunic to start towelling the moisture from my legs and feet. “You’re ceding.” I’m certain now, her wan skin obvious in the light. “To Estevan?”

She doesn’t respond, but I can see the answer in the set of her shoulders.

“I thought the Anguis were better than that.” I don’t bother to hide my bitterness. No wonder the Senate’s been intent on finding Melior.

“That’s not…” She shakes her head. “Fine. Think what you will. But you were right—this is a war we cannot win, not the way we’ve been fighting it. And if it’s the choice between using the enemy’s weapon against them, or giving up, I know which I’ll choose every time.” She holds up a hand as I move to put my good, dry tunic back on. “Wait.”

Every passing second feels heavier, my absence above surely growing more and more suspicious. “What?”

“I need to draw blood with this.” She pulls a stone stylus from the same cavity where the soap had been stored. It’s about ten inches long, similar to the steel and bronze ones I’ve seen some men wearing at their hips. Weapons aren’t allowed within the city limits, and so long stylii—which are in theory for writing on wax tablets, but make perfectly good substitutes for blades, in a fight—are quite fashionable.

“From… me?” I’m confused.

“Yes.”

I shift. “No thank you.”

She rolls her eyes and moves before I can react, whipping the slender grey spike at my bare chest. The tip’s sharp and scores along it, blood welling immediately along the line. I snarl at the sting and step back, ready to defend myself, but Sedotia isn’t threatening. She holds up the stylus so I can see it.

Right at the point, where crimson glistens and beads, it’s starting to steam.

“We need a little more on it, to be safe.” She’s stepping forward; I retreat, bemused as much as angry, but suddenly my bare back is against cold stone. This time, she simply presses the edge of the stylus against my bleeding wound. There’s an audible hiss.

“What are you doing?” I shove her away, incensed. “What is that?”

“Protection.” She issues an infuriating smile at my blank expression. “Now put on your clothes. You’re out of time.” I glare at her, but the knowledge of how long I’ve been gone is too great a pressure. She waits until I’ve furiously tugged my attire back into place, then holds out the stylus to me. “Don’t lose it. Under any circumstances.”

I waver, then take the weapon. My skin tingles where it touches the stone. I can’t see a drop of my blood remaining on its surface.

“I don’t understand.” I reluctantly thread the stylus into a fold in my toga. The hole will be apparent once I take it off, but no one will see it in the meantime.

“You will. Now go.”

I’m torn between confusion, anger, and stubbornness. But it’s been twenty minutes since I left Aequa. Probably more.

I bite my tongue, and storm up the stairs.

---

“WELL. YOU FOUND THE TOILET, then,” aequa observes as i sit down, wrinkling her nose.

I wince. Clearly not thorough enough with my scrubbing. “Eventually. This place is…” I gesture, indicating I can’t put into words the enormity of it.

“I suppose it would be, to you.” She’s put out by my extended absence, I think, but not suspicious. “It doesn’t matter. You’re just in time.”

The crowd is beginning to quiet, the crashing of conversation around us dulling to a low hum as an announcer—one of hundreds around the stadium, from what I can tell—bellows the details of the battle that is about to be re-created. The line along my chest burns, and I can feel the hard resistance of the hidden stylus along my body whenever I move. To the west, the last of the sunlight seeps from the sky, leaving only the brilliant illumination of the thousands of lanterns ringing the arena. Men and women stand tautly at the ready on decks, fully armoured, blades out as they peer toward the opposite side of the artificial lake.

The announcer finishes, and across the Arena, his colleagues fall silent one by one. Then, from all around us, horns ring out. Clear. Challenging.

Below, the naumachia begins.