AQUILA

775DY

Tudas, 34th of Anovo, Spring

The streets of Doros heaved with people beneath an overcast sky as Aquila marched down the cobbled road. The cloud’s floating scattered algae glowed a light green, a favourable omen to those who believed in such things. He hoped this meant the law would not pass today. His pale blue eyes scanned the crowd. A mage of the Spire, his furred face and feline eyes shining beneath the hood of his heavy purple robes, strolled past him. He couldn’t help but stare. A catfolk mage was a rare sight. The cat stared back at him with equal fervour, a strange expression on his face. Aquila’s blond hair hung lopsided, almost covering his eyes if not for its slight curl upwards. Distracted by the mage, he walked clumsily into someone. His lips parted as he apologised profusely for bumping into a wealthy lady. She was likely a Senator’s daughter, judging by her garb. Never wise to upset such creatures, he thought.

He was bound for the Oratio, where voting was taking place today. Outlawing the freeing of slaves all together. Aquila grimaced at the thought. A grey-haired crier called out, his fat arms making sweeping motions to the crowds.

“5 men and women of the family Mancinus, murdered in their homes by their slaves, who took up arms in an affront to the Gods, and Doros herself! Our brave Consul, Corvinus Gravius, announces-”. More troops were present than usual, and Aquila spotted one, clad in red, eyeing him from the corner near an apothecary with a spear in hand. Ahead was the cobblestone thoroughfare that led to the Oratio.

The vast grass field before the Oratio came into view, and was already filled with lined-up people. The space was often used for festivals, public speeches, and events. It was familiar to Aquila by now, who visited it at least once a year to attend the Festival of Virita at the start of the year or occasionally join in the public debates there. Aquila always enjoyed a good debate and prided himself on his talent for rhetoric.

The throng of hundreds of voices echoed across the open space, and Aquila sighed at the wait lying ahead of him. He folded his arms, standing on the grass. His eyes glanced at the dark stone of the Spire, the mage tower, in the distance, dominating the city’s skyline, and his face turned grim. The place had always been a source of fear for him. When he was young, he had read a few too many books and became convinced that magic flowed through his veins. He cried to his mother and father about how the Inquisitors would take him away. He had laughed about it many times in the years since.

He had barely joined the queue when a fight broke out a few places in front of him – a fat, older man with greying hair slapping a younger man with the back of his hand. The young man struck back with a kick to the shins shouting obscenities, and a soldier began to cross the grass, hand on the hilt. He dragged the young man away, calling, “Moros take you, you pampered old shit! I hope your slave slits your throat next time he shaves you!”

Aquila smiled. The young had the run of those opposed to their law while the elders repeated their chants of “The economy! Prosperity!” like a prayer to Aurion. The following week, when Aquila was twenty years old, his father had promised to take him to the Palera to see the gladiators fight. Technically, he wasn’t old enough to vote until then, but he doubted anyone would check if he said his birth was a week earlier. He had been practising deepening his voice and asking his father questions about the Senate’s business all week.

Hours had passed, and finally, Aquila got to cast his vote, slotting the white token into the “Opposed” box. The sun was shining now, the clouds parting. Aquila walked away from the crowd and exhaled, satisfied he had done his part in the name of Doros. Only then, as he stepped across the grass, he noticed the soldier from earlier nursing a broken nose, and the young man he had hauled away was nowhere to be found. He smiled again, shaking his head, and headed home.

Before long, he arrived back at his palatia and his father’s slave, Cyrus, greeted him at the door. He was a lithe man with tan skin and a shiny bald head, dressed in grey rags. Cyrus spoke.

“Returning from the vote, young master?” He said cheerily.

“Indeed. Witnessed quite a scene. A fight broke out.” Aquila replied. Cyrus frowned.

“Were you hurt?” He asked.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Aquila replied. “Strangest thing though, the man who was dragged off, shouting about how slaves should be slitting throats, managed to break a soldier’s nose and escape.” He said, raising his eyebrows at Cyrus. The slave contemplated the notion.

“Perhaps a member of this little ‘resistance’ I’ve heard about.” Cyrus intoned. Aquila creased his nose in surprise.

“A resistance? Where on earth did you hear that, couped up in here all day?” Aquila asked, genuinely bewildered. Cyrus shrugged.

“Many rumours reach me. I always have my ear to the ground, young master.” Cyrus said, smiling.

“If you say so, my friend. Would you fetch me some water and a plate of figs?” Aquila asked. Cyrus nodded and walked away, seeming to float with his elegant gait.

Alone, Aquila moved to the central open-air courtyard, where another of his father's slaves was strumming a harp. His father, Severus, sat in a chair nearby, his gaze turned skyward. "Good omens today," he said, his voice quiet. He turned his weary eyes to his son. "I hope this means good fortune for our cause."

"I think so, Father," Aquila responded. His smile was confident as he relayed his observations from the Oratio, assuring his father that the vote was in their favour. There was a sense of hope in the air that was palpable, and Aquila found himself buoyed by it. He was young, but he was also passionate and ready to fight for a cause he believed in.

After finishing his plate of figs and refreshing himself with water, Aquila chose to retreat to the sanctuary of his quarters. His room, a comfortably sized and warmly lit space within the palatia, was a haven of solitude. Sturdy wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, their seasoned wood supplying a rustic charm. Shelves adorned with books of all sizes and topics lined the stone walls, a testament to Aquila's voracious appetite for knowledge. A soft grey rug, woven with intricate patterns, covered much of the cool wooden flooring, offering a soothing respite.

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The room's most significant feature was a large bay window that looked out over the bustling streets of Doros. Aquila had spent countless hours at that window, his young mind filled with dreams of grand adventures and heroic deeds. As he peered out the window today, those childhood fantasies seemed almost tangible.

He was no longer the wide-eyed boy who played with wooden swords, pretending to be a legendary warrior. Still, the sight of the catfolk mage, the fight at the Oratio, and the hint of a 'resistance' that Cyrus had dropped stirred that old longing for adventure. The boy might have grown into a man, but the spirit within him was as vibrant as ever. As he gazed out into the twilight, the city of Doros spread out before him, each corner teeming with tales waiting to be lived and told.

Later that night, he caught Cyrus in the hallway as he was about to retire,

"Cyrus," he called out, approaching the slave with curious eyes. "Tell me more about this resistance. What do you know about it?

Cyrus, a hint of surprise in his eyes, looked at him. "Well, young master, as I said, it's mostly rumoured. But the word is, some aren’t satisfied with how things are in Doros. They oppose the law and believe in freedom for all, regardless of birth or status."

Aquila was silent for a moment, absorbing Cyrus's words. "And what do you think about it?" he asked, his gaze steady on the older man. Cyrus was quiet momentarily before responding, "I am a slave, young master. What I think doesn't matter."

Aquila shook his head. "To me, it does," he said sincerely. Cyrus looked at him for a moment, his eyes softening. "In that case, young master, I believe that freedom comes to those who deserve it, and if this resistance can bring it to more who do, then it's a cause worth fighting for." He said softly. Aquila frowned at him.

“Deserves it? Don’t you think everybody deserves it?” He asked.

“Perhaps, but not me, young master. Your father already tried to free me when he heard of the law last week. I refuse and remain here in service.” Cyrus replied. Aquila had always known Cyrus carried a deep guilt with him, though he had never known what for. Cyrus was from the Doran Hinterlands, closer to the deserts of Alamun, where the Sand Elves and tusked elephant men lived. It had always been a land of mystery to Aquila, and stories set there were popular in Doros. Something happened when he was younger, making him come to Doros and become a slave voluntarily. Aquila figured that would be quite a sin and never dared to ask about it.

“Cyrus, I know that you carry something with you. But we all sin. It's a part of us. It doesn’t do anyone any good for you to keep yourself here if my father’s freed you. I’m happy for you. You should go. We’d give you money and whatever else you need to get started. You could stay in our guest rooms until you have a place. Perhaps you might even find a wife and have children.” Aquila said, his eyes beaming with hope for the sombre man he had known for most of his life.

Cyrus almost allowed the hope to settle on his face, but it passed quickly. “I had a wife and children once before the young master. And I promise you, I deserve my fate here. There are far worse fates, but I will bear this one in memory of my past.” He said before walking down the corridor, looking sadly through the concrete pillars of the courtyard to the night sky.

Aquila stood for some time, staring after him, confused about what he had said and more than a little intrigued about this Resistance. He would like to meet a member. He was sure that’d be a stimulating debate. Or they’d slit my throat for having slaves in the first place. He shook the dark thoughts away and returned to his room, safe in the comfort of his books, bed and the big window.

He then turned his attention to his books, their worn spines a testament to countless hours spent devouring the words contained within. Each one held a different world and adventure; tonight, he felt the urge to lose himself in one of these, but perhaps on a more serious topic. Picking up a tome about the historical laws of Doros, he settled onto his bed, the book open on his lap.

As he began to read, the notion of the 'Resistance' lingered in his mind. He scanned the pages for any historical precedent or hint of a similar occurrence in Doros's past. Hours slipped as he read, his mind weaving together pieces of history with the threads of his current reality. He thought of Kardia and Rodina, where there was no slavery. Kardia especially was fervent in their equality of laws, even allowing women to vote. Aquila chuckled at the vote, imagining what bizarre laws would exist if that were the case here. Besides, women had enough power over the household, and what’s a powerful man without a woman to whisper in his ear?

His thoughts went back to his mother. She died when he was ten years old. A decade past now. He had complicated feelings about her. On the one hand, he missed her, the weeks when she would smile and laugh, treat him kindly and gently, take him out for sweet pastries and read to him in bed. But those times were scattered amongst months of the other mother. The one who shouted, scowled, slapped him, told him to stay silent and forbade him from having friends. His father had always been quiet, especially when she was in that state.

They had once talked about her, his father sitting with him in his bedroom as he cried. He told her that his mother had an affliction of the mind that caused her moods to swing violently and that she did not mean to upset and hurt him, but she couldn’t help herself. Aquila didn’t care. He hated her in those moments. He had often gone to bed hungry, banished from the dinner table, wishing she would just go away and leave him and father alone.

And then she did go away. She had been strangely quiet for a while, neither angry nor happy, and he and his father had been in the city all day for the Festival of Virita, marking the beginning of the year. Cyrus had run her a hot bath and left her alone. She climbed into the tub, slipped a knife from her clothes, and opened her veins. She had died, bleeding out long before help could get to her.

Aquila remembered how his father had blocked the doorway, falling to his knees and weeping, saying, “I’m so sorry, my love” over and over. Aquila only caught a glimpse of her, but it had stayed with him for life. Since then, Father had become even quieter at home, drinking more often with his friends. Aquila hoped that one day he would bring a woman home and take a new wife to bring happiness and laughter back, but it never happened. His father was solemnly devoted to mourning. He always blamed himself, always thought he should have seen the signs somehow. And even today, he still sat at the shrine to his wife twice a day.

Finally, he placed the book aside and gazed out at the city, now cloaked in darkness with only pockets of light from the scattered lanterns. He blinked back the tears and tried to sleep.