“Tell me, Solus, what do Romans do for fun?” Selene asked, resting on her stomach in the late kyrios’ bed while I paced slowly around the room. Her legs kicked idly behind her. We had been speaking for hours while I waited for Sorea to return with news of Griffon’s survival.

The Scarlet Oracle was borderline ravenous for tales of life outside of the Half-Step City. She eagerly listened to my description of the city of Rome as a Roman knew it, chiming in to contrast it with what she had been told of the Republic as a Greek. She didn’t hesitate to point out similarities between her own city and mine when she noticed them, and she was even quicker to ask about differences in our ways of life.

I’d had an idea from the start when we first spoke to each other on that plateau—surrounded by initiates of the Raging Heaven Cult and yet entirely alone—that she was an isolated girl. I had assumed that had more to do with her father than anything else, but then I’d found out she was an Oracle. It was impossible not to see once I knew to look for it. Selene was a girl that no common mystiko could hope to approach, even for a casual conversation. Those that could afford to be in her company were, by the nature of their power and influence, far older and far less agreeable than a girl her age needed in a friend.

The more we spoke, the more I found myself sharing the truly painful memories. The ones that stung like fresh wounds because they were small enough that I could afford to not remember them every day. The thousand-thousand little things that made me proud to call myself Roman. The countless shards of a shining, shimmering mosaic that together made up the Republic.

Selene accepted those small remembrances, all but meaningless to someone who hadn’t lived them, with genuine reverence. And that made it all too easy to keep divulging them to her.

What did Romans do for fun? I pondered the question.

“Games,” I said because it was the first thing that came to mind. “The chariot races were the largest spectacle by far. My father would always reserve the best seats at the corners of the track, where the races were the deadliest. It was considered a dull affair if at least three chariots didn’t crash by the final lap.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed racing to be Rome’s favorite pastime,” Selene said, interested.

I glanced wryly back at her, bracing half my weight on the raven’s bronze spear. “Why do you say that?”

“Well…” She tucked a finger behind her golden veil and lifted it just enough for a single scarlet eye to peer back at me. Her Heroic fire burned mischievously. “I’ve only met one Roman so far, and you seem to fall in line with the common consensus.”

“I enjoy games as much as the next man,” I protested. “In fact, I enjoy them more.” She smiled obligingly and let the veil drop.

“I believe you, Solus. I’m just surprised. I would have expected a more violent game if nothing else.”

“It was permitted for chariot riders to whip their opponents,” I admitted.

Her smile deepened. “I see.”

“Regardless,” I said, waving the point off, “the simple things are always enjoyable. A hot bath and a cold bath, an afternoon at the races or a game of dice with friends, and whatever sport happened to be at hand.”

“What was your favorite game when you lived there?” she asked, tilting her head. Then, rising up slightly, she added, “Is it a game we could play here?”

I still had my knuckles, and I suspected that the late kyrios would have all manner of board games and curiosities here in his estate—if what Griffon had told me of the man was true. But the question had been what my favorite game was.

“My favorite game was Lusus Troiae,” I said and shook my head. “It’s not something two people can play.”

“The Game of Troy,” she murmured, disappointed and curious in equal measure. “How was it played?”

“Officially? The Lusus Troiae is a maneuvering game, a communal test of skill rather than a competitive one.” I paused in my pacing, allowed the distant cadence I had been keeping in the back of my mind to fade, and sighed heavily as the throbbing ache in my left leg came roaring back to the surface of my thoughts. “In honor of victory, in respect for a statesman’s passing, or in commemoration of new holy ground, the games were invoked as a remembrance of the present as well as the most distant past—the origin war that birthed the Republic.”

“A communal test of skill,” Selene mused. “What’s it look like?”

I inhaled deeply, tasting the clatter of equestrian steps and the drumbeat of their flawless formations.

The column split apart

As files in the three squadrons all in line

Turned away, cantering left and right; recalled

They wheeled and dipped their lances for a charge.

“Three squadrons of mounted Cavalry, each fifteen strong,” I recounted, closing my eyes and seeing it unfold. “Twelve riders, two armor-bearers, and a leader to guide them. Forty-five men and their warhorses in total. We call it the Game of Troy because what they were doing was more than just a drill.” I smiled because the wonder was still there. Even the memory was dazzling.

They entered then on parades and counter-parades,

The two detachments, matched in the arena,

Winding in and out of one another,

And whipped into sham cavalry skirmishes

By baring backs in flight, then whirling round

With leveled points, then patching up a truce

And riding side by side.

“They went to war amongst themselves, those forty-five men. They brought the Battle of Troy to life without spilling a drop of blood,” I recounted. “During my time as a young patrician in Rome, and later as a young officer in Gaius’ legions, I had seen the Lusus Troiae in motion more than once. Each occurrence was as profound as the one that came before. It never got old. It’s difficult enough to coordinate forty-five men in such a complex formation. On horseback, in front of the most demanding audiences in the Republic? Incredible doesn’t do it justice.”

“It sounds impressive,” Selene agreed. “But not the sort of thing you can play at a moment's notice. How often did you get to do it?”

I chuckled ruefully. “Never. I was always an observer.”

I wasn’t old enough, back when I skulked the streets of Rome. And after, I never had the time.

“Your favorite game is one you never played?” Selene asked, frowning severely. “That isn’t fair at all. It’s also very sad!”’

“I said that was the official Lusus Troiae,” I corrected her. “And it is one of my favorites to this day, observer or not. But as a boy, my favorite was the unofficial Game of Troy. The one that young patricians and street rats alike would play while the adults were away.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward, eager.

“Sometime after I met Aristotle,” I explained, “the pickpocket that led to our meeting introduced me to the child’s Lusus Troiae.”

For a moment, the aches and pains were a fond thing, a memory of long afternoons in the alleys and streets of Rome. I shook my head.

“We formed teams of children, one always larger than the other, and where the adults chose to recreate the war in its finest form, capturing the essence of martial ingenuity without any of the bloodshed, the boys of Rome chose to do the opposite. We would draw a line in the dirt, and the larger team would do everything in its power to drag the smaller team across that line. Tactics were minimal—if they were there at all. Bloodshed and broken bones were common occurrences.”

Selene hummed, tilting her head. “I think I can guess which of the two teams you preferred to be on.”

“To prevail in the face of overwhelming numbers,” I mused. “That is the essence of Rome.”

“How do you win as the smaller team? Drag the larger team across the line?”

“No, the official game of Troy is an ode to coordination, but the boys’ game is the opposite. The only way to win was to be the last man standing on your side of the line.”

“And how often did you win, Solus?” the Scarlet Oracle asked me. I glanced back at her, smiling faintly.

“Every time.”

We continued on like that, trading stories long into the night while I awaited the return of Socrates or my eagle, whichever came first.

It ended up being the latter, to Selene‘s delight and my quiet relief. The messenger eagle alighted on the raised butt of my spear, vomiting a message as well as a pile of ink-black crow bones into my open hand. Idly, while I unfurled the papyrus and began to read, I cracked a bone open with my teeth and sucked the marrow out. The starlight strength rushed through the new channels in my body, cascading down towards my left leg and burning horrifically as it began its bloody work. It wasn’t an immediate fix, but any help was welcome.

“Solus,” Selene said, and I glanced up to find her rising from the bed, veiled face tilted down towards the remaining bones in my hand, “what are those?”

I tossed one to her, and she juggled it between both hands as if it burned.

“Griffon and I believe them to be a fraction of a Tyrant’s influence,” I explained, spitting the fragments of bone out onto the kyrios’ priceless ivory and gold floor when I was done with them. “They taste vile and burn going down, but they’re better than hard tack.”

The Scarlet Oracle considered the midnight bone in her hand for a moment before slipping it into a fold in her Oracle attire. She sighed softly and shook her head. “You’re not going to live a very long life if you keep on like this, Solus.”

That was divine wisdom if I had ever heard it.

Sol,

As always, it’s a pleasure to hear your voice, even when I’m only imagining it. If I’m being honest, I might even prefer the you that exists within me.

You’ll be pleased to know that I took your great-grandmaster’s lesson to heart and have since advanced to the second rank of the Sophic Realm. Please, deliver to Socrates my thanks when you get the chance. A bolt of tribulation lightning should convey my gratitude quite well, I think. Failing that, you may instead inform the great philosopher that he’s an ugly son of a bitch, and I intend to punch him in the throat when next we meet.

I await your company along with our Heroic friends, whose strength I have long admired. Perhaps while your great-grandmaster is revealing to you the secrets of creation, I might be able to learn a thing or two from these great legends. Assuming they can find the courage in their hearts to face the tyrant known as reality.

Learn quickly and hurry back, worthless Roman master.

Always,

Griffon

I read the message delivered by my virtuous beast, and then I read it again out loud for Selene’s benefit. She was giggling by the end of it, and I couldn’t deny a bit of exasperated mirth myself.

“This Griffon is your companion that Socrates spoke of?” she asked, and I nodded. “I take it he isn’t really your student.”

I shrugged. “We grew up in different worlds. I’m not strong enough to stand over him as a mentor, and neither is he to me, but there are some domains where I am the master.”

“And some where he is in turn,” she finished. I nodded. “I think I’d like to meet him. No, I know I would.”

I considered the attire of the Scarlet Oracle, the sunrise silks of dawn. “I think he would feel the same way.”

I folded up the missive and dropped it into my shadow, consumed the rest of the ink-black bones and internalized their starlight marrow, and tightened my grip on the raven’s bronze spear.

I began to hum another cadence under my breath, walking along the ivory and gold path, and after a moment, Selene joined in. For the first time since we had arrived on the shores, paradoxical as it was to think while crippled and held captive, I relaxed. Tension slipped away and purpose took its place. Things hadn’t gone the way that I’d intended, but that was a fact of life I had grown all too accustomed to over the years.

What mattered was that I had found a mentor, and I could begin moving forward towards what Griffon had dubbed my hopelessly grim future. My relentless companion was alive and well, stronger than ever. For the moment, I could shrug off the weight that Olympia had heaped upon my shoulders.

Of course, the legions had taught me early on that such moments rarely lasted.

Sorea noticed the intruder first, shrieking an alarm and fanning his wings out wide in a threatening stance, still perched atop my spear. Selene was by my side in an instant, a spear of her own suddenly in her hand, its shaft a bone-white yew topped by a bronze head, the entire weapon covered in carved depictions of war and tragedy. Her sun ray silks whispered quietly as they fell to the floor, revealing the ornate bronze armor she had been wearing underneath.

I inhaled a wary breath and drew myself up to my full height, forcing my left leg to take my weight. I set aside pain and infirmity, things that an officer had no time for, and faced the archway with severe bearing.

“Come forth,” I demanded, and miraculously enough, someone did.

Scythas stepped out of the open air, already three steps inside of the late kyrios’ courtyard, and dropped his sword to the mosaic floor. It clattered musically, every jarring impact somehow turning to whistling chimes on their way to my ear.

“Solus,” he said hoarsely, and I saw the bags under his eyes. The hazel flames of his heart flickered fitfully, their gold embers dulled to copper. I recognized the look on his face immediately.

It was the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix.

The Hero of the Howling Wind Cult dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth. He bowed his head shamefully.

“They told me to kill you,” he confessed. “I wasn’t brave enough to tell them no. But how can I kill you, after you stood by my side? After you were strong for me when I was weak?”

Selene inhaled a slow breath beside me, easing forward a step. She reached out a slender hand, slowly, and laid it upon the crown of Scythas’ head. He didn’t react when she did, other than to shiver and grit his teeth.

“Beware, cultivator,” she said quietly, with sad sympathy. Before my eyes, the curious and vibrant girl I had been introduced to dimmed and became something deeper. “Your heart is not your own.”

“Tell me it isn’t true, Solus,” he begged without meeting my eyes. “Tell me you aren’t striking out against the elders. Tell me you aren’t the raven that hungers.”

Slowly, with care not to betray my pains, I knelt before the Hero of scything wind.

“That night, I wasn’t the one that took the first step,” I reminded him. Not cruelly. With no particular heat. But he flinched nonetheless, dark brown curls of hair matted with sweat hanging over his eyes. “I only made you aware of injustice in action. I only followed where you led.”

“I didn’t want to hunt,” he protested. “I only wanted to save Jason. I only wanted to save someone, for once.”

I frowned and glanced up, into the sunlight veil of the Scarlet Oracle. I tilted my head back, towards her personal quarters within the kyrios’ estate. Her lips pursed. After a long moment, she inclined her head in a nod.

“Why are you here, Scythas?”

“I told you. The Tyrant Aleuas wants you dead—”

“Not here in this courtyard,” I said. “Why are you here in this city? What is a Hero doing in the most secure city in the world while there are people out there in need of saving? Monsters in need of slaying?”

When he refused to answer, or was unable to, I gave him my best guess. I voiced the trend that I had noticed among all of our companions. The red thread that connected us all.

“You ran away,” I quietly condemned him. Scythas nodded miserably. “You wanted to save someone, to be yourself again. I can respect that. I can even admire it. But it isn’t enough to be that man once. You have to be him every day, every hour, every single moment. You can’t afford to be less when the world needs you to be more.”

He looked up at me, and there were tears in his eyes.

“How can I be?” he asked, tortured. “How can I possibly be a hero now, when I had the audacity to be a coward when I was needed? When I had to be brave?”

Just like Jason before, I looked into the mirror’s reflection and felt rage at what it showed me. I set my jaw and rose on worthless legs, thrusting out a hand. Scythas stared at it like it was a living serpent.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” I told him harshly. Those broken eyes snapped up to mine. Belatedly, I felt Selene’s hand on my back, steadying me. Always another person’s hand holding me up. Always another soul standing beside me in support, helping me do what I should have been able to do for myself.

“The question you should be asking yourself—how can you be anything else?”

Scythas stared up at me, and I saw him teetering on the edge of giving in to despair.

“What do they have on you?” I asked him. The First Spear of the Fifth had told me once that the men didn’t need to think you were soft to confide in you. They didn’t need to be comforted or consoled. It was enough to know that you’d go to war for them. It was enough to know that you’d tear out throats for those in your care.

“I’m engaged to his daughter.”

Ah.

“You care for her,” I said. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t have to. “What else?”

His pneuma rippled and flexed around him. “My brother. They have my brother. They took him into the Howling Wind Cult, into the kyrios’ own confidence. They’ve taken my brother, and every day they strive to turn him against me. They took my family, Solus.”

“So kill me.”

He met my eyes in despair.

“You have two choices,” I told him, crushing the part of myself that urged me towards empathy. “You can obey, now and tomorrow and the day after that, and pray every day for a Tyrant’s mercy. You can do what they tell you and kill me where I stand. It might even be enough to keep the people you care about safe.

“Or.”

I clenched my outstretched hand into a fist and pulled him to his feet with Gravitas.

“You can stand,” I said fiercely. “You can fight. And you can take back what is yours. You can’t live both lives, so which will it be? Will you be a slave? Or will you be Scythas? What does your heart say?”

He stood under his own power. Haltingly, he reached out to me.

“It says I’m lost,” Scythas whispered.

“Take heart, cultivator,” Selene said. “You may be lost.”

I took his hand and gripped it tight.

“But you are not alone.”