XXIII

IT’S JUST PAST DAWN WHEN I wake to a rough shaking. I groan and open my eyes to see Lanistia’s dark-glassed visage glowering down at me.

“You overslept.”

“Gods’ graves, Lanistia. Nice to see you too.” I bat away her hand and sit up, scrubbing the blurriness from my eyes. No dizziness this time. The aches of the previous day seem to have eased considerably after the extra rest. “I thought I might have earned a later start.”

“I thought a week’s sleep would be enough.”

“You would,” I grumble as I swing out of bed. I splash my face using the bowl of water on the table, rake my fingers through my hair, straighten my tunic. She watches impatiently.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good enough.” It’s mostly true. There’s still stiffness in every movement, but as I stretch, I can feel the muscles loosening. And though I’m tired, I don’t have the weariness that plagued every breath yesterday.

“Then let’s get moving.”

It’s a strange morning. On one hand, there’s a comforting sense of familiarity as we spar above Ulciscor’s verdant fields, gravel crunching, clouds of breath dissipating into the young light. A few of the Octavii toiling below cast glances in our direction—in my direction, I suspect—but otherwise, it feels as though I could have been simply imagining the naumachia. As though it never really happened.

But I’m all too aware of the passage of time, too. Of how dramatically things have changed since the last time I did this. When I got aboard the carriage a week ago, it felt as though I still had an eon to prime myself. I felt in control, as far as that was possible.

Now I’m underprepared, relative to my time left. Behind.

At first Lanistia doesn’t seem to be treating me any differently than usual; we train hard, and I begin gathering bruises at a steady rate. But as the session drags on I start to notice that her blows don’t sting the way they usually do. That I’m getting away with mistakes.

After the third time she doesn’t take an obvious opening in my defence, I step back. “You’re going easy.”

“Perhaps.” Lanistia straightens. “You were unconscious for a week. Better to ease back into this.”

“We don’t have time for that.” I growl the words. Annoyed that I’m the one having to say them.

“We also don’t have time for you to relapse. Just because Kadmos hasn’t been able to find anything wrong with you, doesn’t mean we can ignore what happened.”

My lip twitches in frustration. “I know you want to push. So push.”

Lanistia moves to take her stance again, then hesitates, instead brushing some imaginary dirt from her tunic. “Ulciscor said he told you about Caeror.”

“He did.”

“And there’s nothing you want to ask me?”

“Is there anything you think I need to know?”

“Not particularly.”

“If there’s something you should be telling me, I assume you will.” I am curious about no small number of things, but it’s not fair to sate my curiosity at the expense of her pain.

Lanistia studies me a moment longer. “Alright.” There’s the slightest relaxing of her shoulders. An almost imperceptible nod of what is very nearly gratitude.

We resume, and I quickly discover the bite to Lanistia’s attacks has returned. I’m surprised to find myself… if not pleased, exactly, then content. I feel like Lanistia and I understand each other a little better than before.

Our sparring continues in relative silence for several minutes, until the young woman opposite me abruptly stops, holding up her hand to indicate I should do the same. She swivels toward the road leading to the villa.

There’s the faint, persistent crunching of wheels against gravel, and a carriage trundles into view. Lanistia and I frown at it together in the hazy half-light of the cloudy dawn.

“Expecting someone?”

She shakes her head, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow.

It’s early for an unannounced visitor. The carriage has stopped outside the villa’s entrance; Lanistia and I walk over together as the driver opens the door. The man who emerges is Ulciscor’s age, I think. Short and rakishly thin, almost bony, with hollowed cheeks and wavy dark hair. He moves with lithe confidence as he dismounts, turning to observe our approach.

“Welcome to Villa Telimus.” I take the lead, as would be expected now my adoption has been ratified. “I’m Vis Telimus.”

“Ah! Young Catenicus himself.” The stranger scrutinises me, looking more fascinated than impressed. “I was told you were still unconscious.”

“Sorry to disappoint. And you are?”

“Sextus Gaius Valerius. I’m here to examine you.”

“You’re a physician?”

“Something like that.” The man turns, pulls a bag from the carriage and starts rooting around in it. “I just need a few samples. And some answers, as you’re in a position to give them. Nothing that will take much of your time.”

“Our Dispensator is an excellent physician, and he’s already cleared Vis of any lingering illness.” It’s Lanistia, curt and impatient. “Under whose authority—”

“The Senate’s.” Gaius is calm as he interrupts, producing a stone tile from his bag and presenting it to me. “The authorisation from Magnus Tertius Servius.”

I take the tile. It’s blank on both sides. I frown over it, then, assuming it means what Gaius is saying, but not sure how, show it to Lanistia. She examines it with her customary lack of expression.

“Ulciscor isn’t here,” she says eventually.

“I’m sure you can find something to verify it against, Sextus Scipio.”

Lanistia grunts—irritated that the man knows who she is, I think—but then with an obvious effort, modifies her tone to be more accommodating. “Of course. Please come inside. We do have to check, you understand, given recent events.”

“Naturally.”

Gaius trails after us into the villa, and Lanistia instructs him to wait in the atrium before ushering me toward Ulciscor’s office. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I glance across at her. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.” A crease in her forehead. “Ulciscor is in Servius’s pyramid, so this should…” She’s putting the tile up against the entrance to the office as she talks; there’s a click, and the door swings open.

“It’s genuine, I take it?”

“It’s genuine. And this is an old form of authorization. It’s unusual. Direct and discreet. Even if Ulciscor was here, he’d be expected to comply without asking questions. And then forget Gaius was ever here.” She pulls the office door shut again, adjusting her glasses distractedly.

“So he’s not a physician?”

“I have no idea. But I can’t imagine he’s been sent here like this just to make sure you’re well.”

“What do I do?”

“Whatever he says. Take note of everything he asks, everything he does. I’ll get word to Ulciscor later.”

We return to the atrium, where Gaius is crouching, examining the intricate mosaic floor. “This is beautiful craftsmanship,” he observes as we enter, not looking up. When neither of us respond, he sighs, standing and stretching. “I trust everything is in order?”

“It is.” Lanistia hands back the tile.

Gaius nods in unsurprised fashion, then gazes at Lanistia steadily. There’s a good five seconds of tension before Lanistia grimaces and walks out, shutting the door behind her.

“Well then.” Gaius motions me into a chair, then begins extracting things from his bag. Several small, coloured stone vials, which make a clinking noise as he places them on the table. A series of unpleasant-looking bladed tools. “Tell me, Vis. When exactly did you wake up?”

He speaks easily, assuredly, with none of the hesitation that comes with deference. That’s strange; the man’s not obviously anyone of importance, and I’ve learned enough of Catenan society to know that a plebian Sextus would normally be more cautious around a patrician’s son.

“Yesterday.”

“Not long, then. Good. Good.” Gaius talks distractedly, unstoppering a vial that appears made of topaz and peering inside, then swishing the contents and giving it a brief sniff before putting it back. “Can you relate exactly what happened at the naumachia? Everything you saw Melior do, every interaction you had with him. In as much detail as possible, please.”

I start my story, which quickly turns into a halting one as Gaius interrupts again and again, requesting explanations or clarifications or more details about almost everything I mention. He works as he does so. He takes samples of my hair, my nails, my spit. Scrapes flakes of skin off one arm, then makes a cut on the other and, to my concern, starts draining a small amount of my blood into an obsidian vial.

“Rotting gods, what is that for?” I break off what I’m saying as globules of red begin disappearing into the container. I didn’t raise an objection when the scalpel broke my skin, but this is too much.

“Testing.”

“For what?”

Gaius doesn’t reply. He’s watching the vial intently, holding it up to the light. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. It’s definitely obsidian. Completely opaque.

“What are you testing for?” I repeat the question. Harshly, this time.

Gaius frowns at the vial for an infuriating second longer, then grunts, as if surprised. “Anything strange. The power Melior used is new to us. There’s no telling what effect coming into contact with it might have on a person’s body. We need to be thorough.” He starts tending to my cut, staunching the trickle down my arm.

It’s a deflection, albeit a well-delivered one. I don’t press. Whatever the real answer is, Gaius isn’t about to give it up.

The physician’s questions resume, and I continue to play the compliant, somewhat bemused boy who simply wants to forget about a traumatic experience. I repeat a lot of the same excuses when he asks for specifics. It all happened so suddenly. It was so violent. I was panicked, did what I thought was right at the time without much critical thought involved. I was lucky.

In the end, much to the man’s evident irritation, I give him nothing beyond what I’ve already supplied to Ulciscor. Just as when I talked to the Magnus Quintus, part of me wonders if I should be saying more. Helping prevent another such attack from ever taking place. The carnage Estevan’s weapon caused is something I would never want to see repeated. A memory that will haunt me forever.

And yet… it is a weapon. One the Hierarchy doesn’t have. One they may actually fear.

Gaius eventually concedes defeat, packing away his samples carefully. He lingers before closing his bag, though, then draws a sheaf of creased papers from it.

“One last question,” he says, his tone a mix of exasperation and resignation as he unfolds the sheets, splaying them out disinterestedly on the table in front of me. “I don’t suppose these mean anything to you?”

There are four pages, each bearing images sketched with extraordinary artistry. A night sky, the silhouettes of what look like people eerily hovering in front of a full moon. A desolate alien landscape, dunes half covering a city’s worth of broken buildings, shattered glass pillars rising from the sand between them like jagged knives. A massive hall with an equally enormous triangular opening at its end, writing in a language I don’t recognise inscribed on the walls all around.

But it’s the fourth that captures my gaze. A giant black pyramid set against towering waves.

It’s not exactly what I saw, in that uncanny second before I reached Estevan. But it’s close enough.

Against my will, my gaze loiters on that last image too long. I do everything I can to recover and tear it away, but Gaius’s casual tone, the way he seemed to be signalling the interrogation was over, disarmed me. A deliberate ploy, judging from the way his eyes gleam, sharp and appraising, when I look up again.

“They’re very strange.” I squint back at them, more to collect myself than to take in more detail. “What are they from?”

It’s a reasonable attempt at salvaging the situation, but even without looking at him, I can feel the heat of Gaius’s scepticism. There’s a breath, and then, “You recognised this one.” The physician leans over, jabbing the black pyramid pointedly.

“I did think it looked familiar,” I admit, trying to sound both sheepish and dismissive. “Would I have seen it in a book, perhaps?” I look up, letting the question hang.

We stare at each other for a full couple of seconds before the spindly man sighs, looking down and collecting the papers again. “No. It wouldn’t have been from a book.” He’s perfectly nonchalant, but he doesn’t believe me. He returns the pages to his bag, then taps the table with a finger twice. A leaving signal of irritation, I think. “If you do… remember… anything, send word to Tertius Servius. I’ll come. Any information you have will be well rewarded.”

“I will.”

Gaius gives me a brief, almost curt nod, then leaves. He’s replaced by Lanistia, who promptly shuts the door behind her. “Well?”

It doesn’t take long to relate the encounter, Lanistia’s usual inscrutable expression firmly in place. She’s worryingly silent after I finish.

“You should talk to Kadmos about this,” she says eventually. “You’re due to have your lesson with him after the morning meal anyway.”

“Kadmos? Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe his extensive medical background. His decades of study. The fact he was the youngest ever head of the Azriat. His—”

“Alright.”

“Good. If he has any new insight, let me know. I’ll send word to Ulciscor now.” She balances on the balls of her feet, as if about to leave, then plants them again. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” I’m genuinely puzzled.

“Go back. At the naumachia.” She’s intent. Her glasses are divided into the green and blue of the horizon outside the window. “Aequa told us you could have escaped with her. Why didn’t you?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You can do better than that.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I think it should have been suicide. And we both know those scars on your back mean you have no real love for Caten.” Her voice is low. Certain. “You’re brighter than most, Vis—but bright doesn’t mean brave, or caring, or heroic. More often it means the opposite. Ulciscor may not see it, but don’t think I’m as blind.” She taps her glasses with a small, ironic smile.

I chew over the words.

“No. No.” When I do eventually speak, I don’t conceal my anger. My indignation. It’s real enough. “It was the right thing to do. Just because I don’t want to be one of the Octavii, doesn’t mean I’d leave them all to die.”

“I didn’t say that. I said it’s strange that you were willing to sacrifice your life for them.”

“Maybe I’m a better person than you,” I snap.

Something about the remark hits home; Lanistia doesn’t outwardly react, but it definitely gives her pause. Her silence allows me a chance to consider. I doubt I would have gone back without Sedotia’s stylus. Even as it was, I hesitated.

But I don’t regret it.

“Maybe you are.” Lanistia says the words quietly. “But that’s not necessarily what we need from you, Vis. It’s a quality that won’t serve you well in the Academy.”

She pivots and is striding from the room before I can respond, leaving me to worry about the peculiar happenings of the morning alone.