                
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...
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