IV

CHAIN YOUR ANGER IN THE dark, my mother used to tell me, and it will only thrive.

I never really understood what she meant, growing up. Why would I? I was a prince of Suus. I had comfort, safety, tutors and servants and family. I was loved. My ire was over being forced to attend dull lessons, over imagined slights and the unfairnesses of entirely fair parental restrictions. A petty wrath, gone almost as soon as it was expressed.

When the Hierarchy came, though. When they took all of that. When I had to learn to hide among them every day. When I had to smile and nod and engage in conversation with people whose weakness allowed the Catenans to be powerful. When I had to swallow rage in every reply and pretend to agree with their excuses for their slavery, my slavery, just to survive.

Then I understood.

Though until tonight, I did think that my chains were strong enough for it not to matter.

I hate it, but I can’t help but wonder what my mother would think of me right now.

The boos coalesce, rain down as I stand alone back in the centre of the blood-spattered stage. I keep my eyes on the ground, not letting anyone see my defiance. Ellanher has just finished telling them all that I cheated. That I’ve admitted to buying the Will of a Totius Septimus, a Septimus who doesn’t cede to someone else, for the evening. She played the hurriedly crafted lie to perfection, mortification heartfelt as she addressed her patrons. Even gave a traditional Threefold Apology, by Catenan custom preventing retribution if accepted. The crowd was sullen at her first appeal for forgiveness. By the third impassioned plea, she’d won them over.

Of course, the subsequent announcement of my banishment has helped. As has that any successful bets on my fight tonight will be honoured, and all others will be repaid in full.

Even through my boiling frustration, I cannot help but think of how much Gaufrid will hate that last part.

My fists clench against the ire of the crowd. Teeth grinding. Breath coming short. I’ve complied with this charade only because Ellanher has assured me that far worse than an aching shoulder and bruised ego awaits me, otherwise. This way we can part, as she puts it, “amicably.” If there’s been no upending of the natural order here, then there won’t be any extra scrutiny from the Hierarchy. And we both know I can’t exactly go to the authorities about any of this.

The heckling peters out soon enough. Grumbling turning to mollified chatter. Everyone here got to see a Sextus beaten, even if it was through cheating. A scandal to talk about for weeks to come, and no money lost from it. They’ve had a good night, all told.

“That will do, my boy.” Ellanher’s at the edge of the stage, waiting for me to start walking. We leave the already-gossiping rumblings of the departing crowd behind us.

The journey back to her office seems too long. Our footsteps echo.

“About your back—”

“No.” I growl the word. I’ve expected the question since the fight, saw Ellanher’s glances as she bandaged my shoulder before we went back out there.

Ellanher knows she doesn’t have much left to bargain with. “Of course, darling,” she says softly.

Another silence as we trudge through the empty corridors. She eventually sighs. More regret than anger in her. “There’s always a return to Victorum. I hear they miss you down there.”

I snort. Letens’s Victorum league is where Ellanher found me, first approached me to participate in these nights. It’s the less-consequential cousin of Caten’s great gladiatorial bouts: voluntary and, more importantly, without the shadow of being consigned to a Sapper if you reach three losses.

It’s still dangerous work, despite the blunted steel we used—and worse, comparatively pointless. It’s a Hierarchy-sponsored activity. The matron would have to officially approve my involvement again, meaning I wouldn’t even get to keep the coin I earned.

“You were good, my boy,” presses Ellanher as we reach her office. She does seem genuinely disappointed that I’m leaving. Sincerely trying to encourage me. Though she is also a fine actor. “And you may be less tempted to try and kill your opponents there.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him.” I haven’t seen the Sextus, whose injuries are undoubtedly being treated somewhere nearby, since the fight. A bloodied and broken nose. Bruises. A headache. Despite my rage, it won’t be anything worse than that. He’ll hear secondhand what was said out there and tell himself that it’s why he lost. That it’s the only way he could have lost.

She opens the door. “You can wait in here until the… less pleased of our customers are gone. If you wish.”

I’m tempted to refuse, but I’m in no condition to handle being confronted by disgruntled spectators. I step inside, ease myself into one of the chairs.

Ellanher stays in the hall, hand on the door. “And Vis? I was right there. I saw your face when you were hitting him, darling.”

She smiles sadly, and leaves me alone.

I sit for a while, wrestling my heavy-hearted frustrations under control. My shoulder throbs beneath its strapping. It’s been a mess of a night.

It’s perhaps forty minutes later when there’s a short knock. I hold my silence, assuming that whoever it is will be looking for Ellanher.

“Vis? I know you’re in there.”

It’s Gaufrid. I stare at the door, trying to decide whether the man would be angry enough at me to have brought muscle.

Probably not?

I unlock it, easing it open. Gaufrid hears and turns from where he had already started walking away, green suit even more garish surrounded by the drab hallway. He looks tired rather than irate. He’s alone.

“Come in.” I open the way a little wider. “But I’m leaving soon.”

“I know. This won’t take long.” Gaufrid joins me in Ellanher’s office but stands awkwardly by the door, not shutting it, shaking his head when I motion to a chair. Instead, he digs into a pocket and abruptly leans forward, grabbing my wrist with one hand and then pressing something cold and sharp into my palm with the other.

Four silver triangles.

“Just refunding your wager,” he says gruffly. As I inspect the metal in my hand, puzzled, he moves to depart.

“Why?” I’m confused. Grateful, but can’t help but be suspicious at the same time. Gaufrid has to know that he’s never going to see me again. And I’m responsible for him losing a lot of money tonight.

The balding man pauses. “Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

I look at him quizzically.

“That’s how long your fight lasted. And then you won. Seeing an Octavus beating a Sextus? That was a damned fine thing. A damned fine thing.” He keeps his voice low. Afraid of being overheard, but emphatic, determined to say the words anyway. “And I don’t care what Ellanher says. You didn’t cheat.”

He leaves, shuts the door again. No goodbye. Not even a nod.

But I’m standing a little straighter. Smiling, despite myself, as I let the four coins jingle in my hand and then join their siblings in my pocket.

Another half hour passes before I deem it safe to leave. No one accosts me as I slip out into the early morning darkness of Letens. The wind has died down, but the chill is more than enough to stir me from the threat of sleep.

I stand there for a long second, melancholic despite myself. These past six months have given me a strange kind of stability. The last of that is almost over, now.

There’s just one more thing I need to do tonight.

---

I RETURN TO THE ORPHANAGE a few hours later, just as the cloudless sky starts to reveal sharp blue.

I’m feeling better as I approach, albeit still sore. My detour to Letens’s Bibliotheca was a success, the travelogue I stole strapped to my back beneath repurposed bandages. It’s filled with maps and descriptions of the archipelago of uninhabited islands about three weeks’ voyage to the east. A bad option, a desperate option. But after tonight, I may not have the chance to find better.

I use my key to unlock the door, slipping inside. I’ve already re-tightened the concealing bandages and tucked the remainder of what I earned from the Theatre tonight into my boots, so when movement greets me before I can even start toward the stairs to my room, I’m ready.

“Vis.” Matron Atrox rises smoothly from her chair. The Septimus in charge of the orphanage is a slim woman, her blond hair shoulder-length and features petite. In her forties, from what I gather, though she could pass for younger. Probably quite attractive, if you don’t have the disadvantage of knowing her.

I make a show of reluctance as I dig the single silver and five copper triangles from my pocket, offering them to her. “For all your hard work, Matron.”

The matron’s smile withers to something cold and hard, and far more familiar to me. “Careful. Your work at the prison is at my discretion. There are always… other ways I could task a boy like you with earning his way.” From the lascivious way she says it, there’s no doubting her meaning.

I ignore the threat; it’s long since lost its sting from repeated use. The hateful woman frowns at my lack of response, then scrapes the metal from my hand. “I need your help as soon as mid-morning bell rings today,” she tells me as she checks the amount. She signed the contract for my work at Letens Prison. Knows down to the coin how much I’m supposed to be paid.

I try not to show how much pain her simple statement brings me. Mid-morning’s only a few hours away, and my throbbing shoulder exacerbates my need for rest tenfold. “Why?”

“A messenger came not long before you. There’s a potential adopter coming at noon today. The children will be excited, and I need your help getting them ready.”

“That’s short notice. And a strange time to be notified.” I’m getting an odd sense of enthusiasm from Matron Atrox. She usually considers adoptions as chores to suffer through.

“The recommendation came from Proconsul Manius himself. And the adopter is a Quintus.” She waits, nods as she sees my reaction. Important men in the Hierarchy, far more so than we would usually be entertaining. In fact, I’ve been here for a year and a half, and we once had a Sextus adopt someone. “It’s vital that everything go smoothly today, Vis.”

It’s a statement and a threat. A statement because if a Quintus adopts someone in her charge, that raises Matron Atrox’s stock considerably. It could lead to increased funding from Religion, maybe even a promotion to Sextus for her down the track.

And a threat, because my presence would reflect poorly on her. A near seventeen-year-old who still refuses to visit the Aurora Columnae?

The deep, layered scars on my back reflect exactly how much of an embarrassment that is to her.

“I’ll stay clear.” I haven’t been interviewed for months, anyway—not since the matron gave up on getting rid of me or farming me out for my Will, and decided to put me to work in other ways. Which involves doing the majority of her job, during the day.

Now she’s seen past the frustration of not being able to break me, I think she rather likes the new arrangement.

“Good boy.” The matron smooths her white skirt as she stands. I’m not sure what time she rises in the morning, but she’s always impeccably dressed and made up. Never a hair out of place. “I’ll send Vermes to wake you.”

She sweeps away toward the kitchen, not giving me another glance.

I wait until she’s gone before I move. As expected, the fresh abrasion on my face hasn’t elicited comment—she assumes, and I’ve often implied, that I’m treated poorly at the prison—but if she notices my shoulder, then she’ll want to make sure I’m fit for work. And at present, an examination would lead to the discovery of the travelogue.

Once I’m certain she’s disappeared, every muscle groans as I climb the stairs and follow the long hallway to my room. It’s at the far end. Tiny. Space for a single mattress on the floor, and not much else.

It’s all mine though. The twenty or so other children here have more space, but bunk two or three to a room. I was moved here when I started working outside the orphanage, so as not to disturb anyone with my unusual schedule.

It’s suited me. There’s a panel in the wall that I managed to pry loose early on without any visible damage, with a cavity behind it that’s large enough to secret away the extra coins I’ve been earning. I deposit the few leftover from tonight, then slowly, stiffly unwind my bandage and add the book. It’s a tight fit, given the nook isn’t especially large, but after some careful manoeuvring, I get it in and move the panel convincingly back in place.

Despite my exhaustion, I take the time to rebandage my shoulder as best I can. It’s a clumsy process. Painful. Certainly not as effective as Ellanher’s work. I won’t be able to hide the injury, come morning, so instead I’ll have to convince Matron Atrox to do a better job of it when I figure out how to excuse its existence.

For now, though, I just need to sleep.