Chapter 16

A crowd had gathered around the stairs to the Market Hall. It murmured uneasily, confused. There was an air of hostility, the people wished to enter the Hall but were blocked by soldiers up above. The soldiers were adorned in gold and sapphire, the colors of the King, but on their clasps was imprinted a black scorpion, the sigil of Lord Theron’s household.

“I must join them, gather what information I can.” Darios left them to the crowd, pushing his way through the sea of people towards the steps and disappeared.

Arios stood with his sister in the rain, waiting. The crowd was growing restless. There were shouts to open the market followed by cheers that quickly turned to hisses when the soldiers would not acquiesce. They did not know. No one had told them. They only knew it was cold, that they were hungry and that the King’s men were denying them food.

“We should leave.” The rain was strong and there was nowhere to escape it here. Before long, their cloaks would soak through exposing them to the cold. “Ilaria?”

But she shook her head, starring up at the soldiers with gritted teeth, waiting.

They waited; in the rain it seemed like hours. They grew wet and cold, what he wouldn’t do for a roaring fire and hot wine.

Finally, Arios saw movement up above, underneath the portico. Several men rushed out carrying a large canopy. Beneath it was a man dressed in fine turquoise robes. He had a young face, haughty and proud. In his hands was a parchment which he held up for all to see.

“People of the Middle Ward, I am Scribe Phaelos, I have been sent by Lord Theron who apologizes for keeping you in darkness.” His voice was high pitched but it boomed carrying through the rain.

There was a smattering of sarcastic applause.

“It is with great sorrow that I inform you that this Quarter’s Market Hall will be closed until further notice.”

The crowd burst into boos, they rained down harder than any storm, Arios felt himself begin to rock as the people surged forward ever so slightly.

“Closed for what?” It was impossible to see who had asked the question but the crowd buzzed in agreement.

“We have the right to know,” called out another voice and the people roared.

“A man has been killed; his body hangs in the hall.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Who?” It was a much softer voice but, in the silence, all heard it speak.

“He has been identified as a man from the Lower Ward. He was known as Marcen.”

The crowd began to whisper. Some remembered Marcen from his recent outburst in the Market Hall.

“You mean the man who was beaten to near death by city guards just two days past? He was my friend! The last any one saw of him he was being dragged off by soldiers!”

The people grew more agitated as the shouting increased.

“I remember Marcen!”

“He had the stones to question the Merchant Guild!”

“He committed no crime!”

“The merchants are the true criminals! They attempt to profit from our suffering!”

“Perhaps the Kyrithon were right!”

“People! People! Calm yourselves,” Phaelos cried struggling to reign in the mob. “It was the Kyrithon who slew this man! They desecrated his body, stealing his eyes as an offering to their false god!”

“Let us see him! We will decide for ourselves!”

“I cannot permit you to enter this building, by the order of Lord Theron.” There was fear in the scribe’s voice.

Let us decide!” The mass began to chant. “Let us decide!”

They had been whipped into a frenzy. Hours in the rain waiting for food had worn their patience. Their chants grew louder and louder as more people gathered drawn by their rage. Then suddenly from out of the throng broke a single man. He dashed up the steps and charged straight towards the scribe.

He did not make it close. The light of the sun crept through the storm clouds and the glint of steel shone in its newfound light. There was a single scream and the man fell back tumbling down the steps towards the feet of the crowd. The ivory stairs painted red.

There was a pause, and then the mob exploded. They surged forward swarming up the stairs sweeping Arios up in their current. Leaving his sister behind!

“Ilaria!” but his words were lost in the fighting.

He stumbled up the steps, struggling to keep his balance. Any one that fell to this flood would surely never rise again. Beside him he heard a man howl and saw him fall clutching at his belly. A soldier pulled his spear from a body just as he was overwhelmed by half a dozen men and trampled beneath their feet. Rain mixed with blood forming a crimson sea that washed down the steps. Arios struggled for breath. He was trapped, slowly pressed between charging men behind him and fighting men ahead. He was going to be swept away, drowned in the waves of his own people.

Then someone grabbed his arm and pulled him out. It was Ilaria. She dragged him out of the mass and away from the fighting.

“Arios, are you hurt?” Ilaria stood on the step above him doubled over heaving. There was blood in her braid and rips in her tunic.

“You saved me!”

“We are only safe for the moment.”

The fighting had moved in to the market now. The stairs were littered with corpses, the air thick with the wails of the dying. Few had been lucky enough for a quick death instead having bits and pieces of them crushed by the pounding of hundreds of feet. Their dying was slow, their screams horrifying.

“Did you see Darios? He was not on the steps. He may be trapped in the hall. We must go to him!”

But Arios did not want to. He wanted to go home. It had all happened so quickly. They had turned on one another. Kenosia was eating itself. Just as Archiereus Hesperion had said they would.

“Ilaria I…” He wretched, coughing and was sick. He tried to stand but his legs were too weak.

Ilaria caught him as he fell. She looked into his eyes and saw the desperation, “Let us go home,” she said. “Darios must have left before the fighting.”

She lifted him, propping him up under her shoulder as they descended the steps.

Bells rang throughout the Middle Ward. Calling for help.

“Fire!” A voice shouted and dozens of men ran by. They donned dark tunics and bore the insignia of the Vigiles. “Help us! They have set our stores ablaze!”