Hungerblade

Part Six: A Senate Of Magicians

Jacques followed Isabelle down the Imperial Way from the palace, which stood on the highest of Romulus’ seven hills. From this vantage point he could see the city’s sprawl in its entirety. Even here, in the heart of the world’s mightiest empire, generations of civil war with Zanatium and the scars of the Red Plague still showed. Some quarters buzzed with activity; other neighborhoods seemed deserted and ghostly, inhabited by only a few desolate souls. Romulus had yet to fully repopulate itself, leaving swaths of villas, insulae, and warehouses still derelict.

“Tell me again why you need a magician,” said Isabelle.

“At first, I thought that the Emperor was mad. He called us with great urgency, then paced about and made vague accusations against his Senate. And he might well be mad. But as he rambled, I sensed that he was attempting to tell us something, but was constrained, by some unseen force.”

“What does Wigandus think?”

They had left the merchant prince behind to feast on Romari delicacies and ingratiate himself to palace officials.

Jacques stopped, leaned on Isabelle’s shoulder, and struggled to remove his boot. Despite the difference in size the woman did not sway in the slightest. “The question is what to think of Wigandus. He seemed . . . I don’t know . . . unfazed by Nero’s condition.” He turned the boot upside down, dislodging a tiny pebble. “But the secret to this sort of thing is not just to ask the correct questions, but to confront them in the right order.” Heedless of the indignity of his position, he sat on the stone road to wrestle his boot back on. “So then: a magician who knows his field, and can be trusted to keep quiet?” Isabelle helped him to his feet.

“A tall order,” she mused. “Romulus has plenty of the first, not so many of the latter.”

Jacques sat at a bench in a shadowed corner of a tavern near the Forum Romanum. On the table’s other side sat the sorcerer Isabelle had commended to him. Most of the establishment’s patrons were gathered outside, at street-side tables. A hanging basket dripping with ferns provided an additional obscuring element to maintain the relative privacy of their meeting. Isabelle provided a brief introduction.

Ermanno de Abano wore a blue-green toga, trimmed in copper thread. He was perhaps fifty years of age, his dark hair speckled with flecks of silver, which grew especially dense in the trim, pointed beard he sported on his chin. Only his cylindrical velvet hat and the mystical symbols on his many rings identified him as a practitioner of the arcane arts. Ermanno spoke in a hushed yet animated manner that gave even his most innocuous statements the air of delicious conspiracy. His initial queries after Isabelle’s well-being had suggested an interest in her extending past the collegial and undoubtedly hastened her departure following a subtle gesture by Jacques. The two men settled into a conversation while patrons drifted in and out of the tavern.

“It is as you say,” the magician agreed. “The symptoms you describe could be those either of madness, or of ensorcelment. If it is unnatural influence, it would be very difficult to prove.”

“But it is possible that someone is using magic to force him to act against his will.”

Ermanno weaved in his seat. In defiance of Romari practice, Ermanno drank his wine unwatered; he was on his fourth goblet already. “Possible, but difficult. It would, naturally, require the concerted activity of a cabal of magicians, all of whom have mastered the same ritual. For something of this nature you would need at least five, but seven would be better.” Ermanno paused and tapped his cup in thought. “Eleven would be best, unless the cabal’s leader were especially powerful.”

Jacques did not need basic magic explained to him. He was probably as well versed in magical theory as Ermanno. All magic was performed by rituals of some type. Even a child knew that all magic, from the creation of enchantments to building construction to the protection of grain stores, was performed by groups of sorcerers, working together. These groups had different names and traditions, but at least three ritualists, working together, were required for even basic spells. Although there were variations in individual ability, the more ritualists involved the more permanent, effective, or spectacular the result. Guntram used no less than thirteen ritualists for all construction on the Solar Palace, preferring seventeen for certain key aspects.

“Unless it was one of the fey,” Jacques said.

Ermanno shrugged. “Yes, yes, one must always consider that it might be the fey.”

Fey were not human. No human alive could work magic alone. The fey were not so constricted. Although his contact with the fey was limited, Jacques had read reports of individual fey levitating, ensorceling weapons, and casting protective magics. The Imouha of northern Frikara seemed to be the most powerful sorcerers, and the culture that was the best documented among humans, but so little was known about the cultures of that unknown continent there could well be more powerful practitioners working deeper inland.

Jacques swished his wine around in his goblet. “I’ve always found that mysteries involving magic are better solved by looking for motives, and from there, witnesses and records of payments. Who would benefit from placing a geas on Nero?”

Ermanno laughed and slapped the table. “This is Romulus. Who wouldn’t?” The magician’s chuckle smelled of fermented grapes. “I’d look to the senate. They’ve been looking to restrain the throne since Nero’s father launched his fool campaign to reunite the empire.”

“Foolish? He succeeded, didn’t he?”

“Yes, the eastern territories formally submit to Romulus again, instead of merely trading with us, sharing our customs, and intermarrying their noble families with ours. Zanatium is now formally part of our glorious empire. What a splendid victory, worth all the legions and caskets of gold it cost on both sides. What the plagues did not kill Nero’s father did.” Ermanno paused and shoot his head sadly. “I assume you’ve walked the streets? Here in the heart of the empire entire sections of the city lie empty. My brothers in Licinopolis tell me it is even worse there.” Ermanno drained his goblet, which Jacques refilled.

“Then came Nero’s older brother, Certarius, who was worth even less than his father. The day he ate that bad clam was an auspicious one for the empire.” The magician mimed the pouring of a poison into an imaginary plate of food, apparently fearing that Jacques might otherwise miss the implication. “Except that it left us with Nero, whom you’ve met.”

“You are a partisan of the Senate, then?”

“Hah! Which faction? I’d take my chances on the Coliseum floor before I stood at the Senate. I am a partisan of minding my own business.”

Jacques regretted his decision to pour the magician more wine. “Which perhaps you ought to do more quietly. Let us say that I am a senator wishing to commission a ritual of the utmost sensitivity. Who would I hire?”

“Hire? If you were a senator, you’d do it yourself. Among the equestrian class, sorcery is the latest vogue. Anyone can learn magic, though few have the discipline or opportunity to go far in the arts. With money there is no shortage of opportunity to learn and those powerful in the Senate are surprisingly disciplined. Now there is no ambitious patrician who does not attend weekly tutoring sessions in the arcane arts. A lucrative position, by the way, if one can stomach all the toadying it entails. Nowadays the equites boast of their ritual accomplishments as they used to compare horses, or statues of themselves. All part of their eternal quest for glory, which, I suppose, is all that really motivates them.”

“Who started this fashion?”

Ermanno abruptly wobbled off to the latrine. On his return, he continued, as if he had not been gone: “That would be Senator Circe. Try to meet her, and see if you do not fall headlong into her emerald eyes. She’s no mere dilettante; if she weren’t of noble birth she could easily be head of a magician’s guild. Very clever to perform your own magic. With no hirelings or payments involved, the spying efforts of, let’s say, inquisitive foreign messengers are made all the more difficult.”

“And, as a dedicated glory seeker, it goes without saying that she seeks temporal power.”

“This is Romulus.”

Jacques sighed. “Then how might a ritual of this sort be accomplished?”

Ermanno thought before speaking “The geas is not my specialty, but I can tell you this. If they have placed one on the Emperor, its power is most likely invested in a locus. Yes?”

“A locus?”

“A small physical object which features prominently in the ritual. It stands in for the subject; the first part of the ritual establishes a correspondence between the object and the person you wish to ensorcel. Once you’ve done that, the rest of the ritual is devoted to issuing your command or commands.”

“What will the locus look like?”

“Something precious and easily handled: a gemstone, a silver knife, a tortoise shell comb. The ancients used rare shells. But don’t bother looking for it. The locus is required for a ritual that would undo the geas. So, if they’re clever, which of course they are if they’re senators, they’ll have destroyed the object after the ritual, so it can’t be undone. Besides, are you sure you even want to undo the geas?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” said Jacques, standing. “I’m a messenger without a message.” He withdrew a heavy coin purse from his tunic and placed it beside Ermanno. As Jacques left he took careful note of a slouching figure positioned at one of the tavern’s outdoor tables. The man was strangely gaunt for his comparatively young age; Jacques guessed that he was scarcely twenty. A feathery mass of severely-cut hair adorned his large head. Thin, but taut, arms dangled from the sleeves of his toga. Jacques had first spotted him during Ermanno’s explanation of geas rituals. The fellow had been inching his chair carefully back, so that he could observe their meeting without seeming to do so. He was not an unskillful watcher. Were he observing a less experienced subject, he would have surely passed unnoticed.

Jacques paid the taverner and, adopting a tipsy gait, moved out onto the plaza. He stood at street-side, like a gawping traveler seeking his bearings. Sensing movement behind him, he turned slightly to see the gaunt man ease himself up to his feet. He plunged into the street, moving alongside a massive cart bearing a large iron cage. Inside the cage squirmed a young thunder lizard, presumably bound for the Coliseum. It wailed piteously, raising its horned snout in animal distress. It was already six feet long and three feet high, but it would grow much bigger. Jacques looked at the sharp horns protruding from the bony crest around its head and felt a twinge of horror on behalf of the condemned prisoners who would one day be forced to fight it. He wondered if it breathed flame, as some of its kind was known to do, and concluded that its snout would have been fastened shut if that were the case.

In the polished shield of a passing tribune, Jacques noted the reflection of the gaunt young man. He was being followed. Jacques picked up his pace, darting down a narrow avenue to a parallel thoroughfare. At the archway marking the terminus, he moved a few paces to the left and stopped. The gaunt man stepped quickly into the thoroughfare and saw Jacques standing a few feet away. Quickly recovering his composure, he made a determined line to a silk vendor’s stall, where he pretended to examine the merchandise until Jacques moved on.

Jacques played dawdling mouse to the man’s cat, stopping frequently to examine the goods on offer at every third or fourth stall. He sniffed at cones of incense, hefted jars of olive oil, and considered the purchase of an indigo toga. This forced the gaunt man to pretend an extensive interest in a wide variety of wares.

Abruptly Jacques made off down a twisting alleyway. Earlier, on his way to and from the Imperial Palace, he’d seen the city from its highest point, gaining a quick sense of its general layout. As Ermanno indicated, Romulus still bore the scars of the great depopulation; certain of its quarters were busy and densely occupied, while others stood crumbling and derelict. The abandoned sections of the city were scattered through the active quarters, like pockets of dead flesh in an otherwise living body. Jacques, who had a knack for literal and mental maps, headed for the nearest stretch of desolated buildings. He checked to see that the thin fellow still followed him and sped on. Even though the other man did not know it, the chase had reversed.

Jacques wended through a series of empty warehouses and collapsing domuses, leaping over the still-maintained furrow of a burbling aqueduct. He sheltered himself behind a column, carved to celebrate the victories of centuries past, and watched his pursuer stand in frustrated confusion in the middle of a windswept plaza.

The man poked his head into several of the nearby structures, forcing Jacques to relocate to a wooden shed, then to crouch beside a gargantuan urn. Finally, the man gave up and headed back the way he’d come.

Now Jacques followed him. The young man plodded unwarily through the city, sticking to traffic-choked streets which afforded his pursuer an abundant selection of people, carts and beasts to hide behind. His incaution easily made up for Jacques’ lack of familiarity with the city, and his relative obtrusiveness in his outlander’s garments.

When the gaunt man reached the hilly territory of the city’s patrician class, the roadways widened and traffic decreased, making it harder for Jacques to shadow him unseen. Fortunately, he had no desire to catch up with his former pursuer, and this allowed him to hang back and carefully choose his hiding spots. The upward slope of the road made it progressively easier for Jacques to watch from afar.

Finally his former pursuer stopped at a set of freshly whitewashed gates, which encircled a sprawling estate containing a large central villa and numerous out-buildings. The watcher passed its spear-wielding guards without challenge, suggesting that he was a regular fixture there.

Jacques sauntered along the deserted street until a butcher trundled by, wearily pulling a cart loaded with knives and barrels of meat. A simple talisman, suspended from a wooden bar, hung above the barrels, doubtlessly keeping the meat fresh. He pointed to the estate the gaunt man had gone into and asked who it belonged to. The man surveyed Jacques clothing and snorted.

“Foreigner? That’s the Senator’s estate.” Jacques noticed one of the guards look his way.

“The Senator?” Jacques replied as he pulled out a single golden coin.

“Senator Circe.”

To be continued...