We were taken in chains from the magistrate’s palace to the Castle Padua. The great, slanted spire rose from the Border Wall to an astonishing height, casting a long shadow on the city of Terminus. We walked alongside its smaller curtain wall, which held many empty emplacements for ballista and cannon that were long since removed or fallen into disrepair.
I suspected even more magnificent fortifications had once existed, but time had eroded even their foundations.
Past an iron gate, the courtyard of the Castle Padua was no less an impressive sight, though a far more grisly scene. Here, in the heart of the city, was a frozen garden of the dead. I learned later its name was the Arboreal Preserve of Triumph, a refuge and resting place for the dead heroes of Terminus
Stepping into this wide space was an unexpected reminder of the desolation that surrounded the city. The air crept back to its hostile chill, and as I surveyed this new sight, I saw a monument of forlorn desiderium. Much like the other gardens fostered in Terminus, the monarch’s remembrance was filled with every manner of colorful plant and vine. Tall trees dotted the view, and the greenery bordered on what could be called a jungle. And amidst this landscape, there were dozens of small greenhouses, verandas, and stone memorials.
Except this wonderful, beautiful garden had been flash-frozen in place. It seemed the flowers weren’t even given time to wilt in the cold, instead being preserved in a mocking similitude of life. The vines looked like frost covered appendages, strangling the dead trees as ice-bound leaves remained up high, motionless in the wind. And in this frozen land, many bodies of soldiers had been arrayed in fanciful theatre.
Some were standing on guard or otherwise patrolling. Some were sitting at tables, feasting on similarly frozen meals. Some were given places of honor, standing on mighty pedestals wearing bejeweled armor and carrying mighty weapons from battles long ago. Walking along a snowy path, we passed by a lone, forgotten soldier.
He was resting in the roots of a tree. His sunken face had fallen into a deep slumber, and he had his sword at his side. The roots looked as though they wanted to devour the man, prevented only by their premature death. I briefly wondered what achievements he had accomplished in his life, what victory had warranted this place of highest honor. But those things were likely forgotten too, from looking at this corpse’s advanced age.
I suppose that’s how we all end, one way or another.
We did not go through the castle’s main entrance, as was customary for honest petitioning citizens. Instead, we were led through the Gate of Fair Sanction, a metal portal fashioned into a bearded man with his mouth gaping open for the doors. We were devoured quickly and led down a colder, dark passage, whose dreadful purpose, had it not been for the garden above, would’ve been menacing.
Yet more bodies lined the walls, though these were kept in iron cages and pierced with spikes. Here, in the Hall of Oblation, Terminus gave memory to the men who did not sacrifice, but were sacrificed. As heroes offer their lives for the sake of their city, so too does the city take the lives of the unlawful. It is upon both these sacrifices—these human sacrifices—that this idea we call civilization stands.
As I walked along this stark reminder of mortality, I noticed that every seventh corpse was beheaded. These ones carried the braziers of smoldering flame which gave light to the dim corridor, their skulls placed in the smoldering fire. And as we passed through the foundation of the Castle Padua, I could not help but think of how my corpse was probably going to be added here. And yet, this thought did not fill me with much dread. Just as men can no longer reward those above, so too they cannot punish the ones below.
After some time walking in silence, we finally came to a set of heavy wooden doors. The soldiers, pushing the entrance open, revealed the chamber at the very center of the Castle Padua.
Two flowing rivers rippled around a circular icy pasture. On this artificial hill, a large tree wept for its own demise. It was a sour, sickly thing. Its bark was sloughing off in a most dismal way, and its branches were all but barren. I suspected this was because they had tried to keep the tree alive instead of embalming it, like all the rest I had seen. In any case, I saw the Princeps sitting on a bark throne, and my first thought was that he should’ve died young.
He wore the regal black robes, but I saw they might as well have been funeral cloth. The Princeps Caracalla was crooked and old, more a husk of man than anything else. He seemed no different from the corpses that littered both the passage and the garden above, a sallow carcass bequeathed with the authority of the king. His pocked, unshaven face spoke of a terrible neglect to his health. His cataract eyes did not follow as we entered the chamber. Only the slight rise and fall of his skin-draped frame told me he was still alive.
It was the equerry that stood by the throne who I immediately recognized as having all the real power. She seemed to be a woman in her early forties, wearing white robes. The equerry had the narrow face of a viper, and the green, vicious eyes of one too. She had evaded most of the wrinkles of such an age so far, but her raven hair was starting to turn silver. Upon first glance, I knew why the Princeps’ wife had taken a position of such power, and why that was such a terrible turn for us. I confess, my heart sunk in my chest at first glance.
Many terraces overlooked the court, nearly overflowing with nobles and their mannequin attendants. I paused at the steps leading down to the golden dais at the base of the barren hill, which served as the speaking floor for the accused. Among the nobles, I spotted Messalina being attended by Charon. She was sitting in a high chair, served with exotic meats and other delicacies. Flocking around her were at least a dozen nobles giving her sympathy and encouragement.
I noticed several bandages on her face, and while I could not see the wound I had left on her, it was obvious it would turn into an ugly gash on her otherwise beautiful countenance. Messalina caught my gaze, and she looked at me with cold fury, reaching one hand to the mark I had left on her.
I still had not seen nor heard from Berenice, and from Messalina’s expression, I again deeply regretted risking Berenice on returning to her household. I wish I had told her otherwise, as Messalina had doubtlessly dealt with her younger sister. On a lower terrace, reserved for the lower classes, I spotted Gereon. Ever the loyal soldier, he stood resolute, unmoved by the controversy and shame that had followed in my wake. Before I had a chance to further study the scene, I was pushed to a golden dais, and the room fell silent as the female equerry raised her hand.
“Accused!” The scolding voice of the equerry resounded surprisingly loudly throughout the chamber. “You are judged by the Princeps Caracalla, stewarded by his loyal Equerry Fulvia Antoninus. You have been charged with attempted murder and rape. How do you speak for these charges?”
Between the soldiers and in our chains, Crixus and I exchanged a short glance. He bade me forward with a nod of his head, and loathe as I was to give the court the dignity of a response, I stepped forward.
“We have no guilt upon us!” I shouted to the masses of the chamber.
A great hush fell upon the hall as all eyes were affixed on the drama that was about to unfold. Messalina took a piece of meat and sumptuously ate it as she grinned at me. Even still, she had the enrapture of the attendants, patting and comforting her with platitudes of our most sure sentencing.
I knew from first glance that she had been enjoying her circumstances. Her claims of rape had not fallen on deaf ears, and she had been the benefactor of the kindness of Terminus. This was her reintroduction back into high society, a fabricated injustice to grant her audience to the highest of halls. And to cement her status as a noble, she had Charon attend to her, decked with a gaudy apron not unlike the lowliest of food servers. The mannequin with the mask of an old man did not seem slighted, but the construct nodded towards me strangely, as if reassuring me of an outcome he could not possibly predict.
Before I had the opportunity to think on that portent further, the equerry called my attention again.
“Then let us hear the testimony of the prosecution!”
Messalina stood up and brushed off her dress with the manner of a woman humbled but not entirely overwhelmed by the circumstances that had befallen her. She was enjoying every moment of this trial, and the sympathies of the nobles had only emboldened her arrogance. She was a woman who had the acclamation of the masses for her supposed bravery, fleeing into the streets naked to avoid the greater shame of rape. I found such is the lot of women. The more they bare their bodies to the public, the more ravenously they are delighted upon. And the more they sell their souls into depravity.
“I know these men, Sirius and Crixus. They are vile in their hearts, and they plot vile designs. I shall not lie to you, people of Terminus. When the man called Sirius rescued me from the clutches of Crixus, I thought he was an honorable man. I thought he was of a decent nature. Instead, I found another devious man thinking to rob me of my honor. He falsely claimed himself as a courier in order to win my trust and respect. And when I took him into my own home, he tried to force himself on me.”
I raised an eyebrow when she said I wasn’t a courier. Of course, she was merely continuing the trick she pulled with Elagabalus. However, the hidden malice with which she spoke told me she had a second reason for this lie. If I was indeed a courier, then I could plead to be allowed to continue to Calrathia. As it was, we could still plead to take the oath anew and carry manuscripts out into the wastes. However, I could already hear the court’s excuse—that they had no manuscripts they needed to send. Such a tactic was employed when they thought the accused was untrustworthy or clever enough to escape the wastes. Or in this case, when the court just wanted blood.
Ironic, since I fully intended to go to Calrathia and die out there. But Messalina could and would not permit the death I had chosen. That would mean I would’ve won, in her mind.
“What say the accused!?” Fulvia turned to us.
Crixus glanced at me, a look of forlorn hope in his eye. I stepped forward and cleared my throat.
“I shall begin with the accusation of murder, since that is the less serious offense.”
There was a gasp and a quiet hush in the hall. The Princeps, mighty be his name, tapped his finger on his throne.
Fulvia was positively shrill. “What sort of man are you, that would you claim murder to be less serious than rape? One is a deprivation of life. The other is merely a deprivation of honor.”
Now I had no doubt this woman would’ve been arguing the exact opposite, had it been contrary to what I said.
“A pertinent question!” I quickly responded. “I ask of you, men of Terminus, who among you would not give your life to protect your wife’s honor!? Who among you would not die for your daughter’s!?”
All eyes of the court were on me, and the room was dead silent, save the trickling of the rivers’ water.
“You would choose to give your own lives over your blood’s honor? Then I think the question is settled.”
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The Princeps shifted on his throne. Fulvia did not have a good response prepared.
I began with this approach for three reasons. First, it was the truth as I best understood it. Second, it would ironically draw this woman’s harsh judgement away from Crixus and onto me. And third, it indicated that I was a man knowledgeable of the law, giving less credence to Messalina’s lie that I was some lowborn opportunist. From what I could tell, this tactic worked a good start on the crowd—who were my only hope of swaying Fulvia.
“Continue.” Fulvia nodded, less willing to assent to this reasoning so much as hoping to catch me next time with a verbal trap.
I paced the dais. “I do not deny that Crixus moved his hand against Messalina’s life. What I deny is his guilt!”
Crixus suddenly lowered his head, crestfallen. He had probably assumed that I would lie for him, weaving some sophistry before the court to release him. But I had no intention of doing so. I gave him my promise honestly, and I would deliver him from his punishment honestly.
“So you admit this man tried to murder the daughter of the Aurelian family?” Fulvia wanted to get a straight confession out of me, obviously hoping she could put me on the back foot and hasten this trial.
“I admit this daughter of the Aurelian family warranted death.”
There was a great uproar in the crowd as the nobles began shouting and hurling curses and demanding the equerry execute us. Fulvia basked in this for a minute or so. She raised her hand, trying to silence the great clamor of voices so she could proclaim the sentence. But I took the initiative first.
“I tell you Messalina had relations with Crixus! She took this tribesman into her household as a servant, and she paid him with her own body! And when she gave birth to his child, she shortly thereafter had his son killed for her own shame! Do you not expect a father to take vengeance on his child’s killer!?”
Again, there was a great clamor calling my words lies. The nobles, who had eaten up every word of Messalina’s story, would be greatly embarrassed if it had turned out they were deceived. And so they called for my head, and it was clear the equerry was more than willing to give it to them. Again, I had to shout as loud as I could, silencing the masses before Fulvia could speak and proclaim the sentence.
“And will you not listen if I hand you proof!?” I strained my voice to its utmost limit. “Or does this court not care about justice!?”
That silenced them again. Whatever they were now, they still needed to pretend that they delivered justice, or else all would be revealed to be a sham. A look of confusion and fear crossed Messalina’s face, as I thought it would. She had disposed of everything. There was no proof to present to the court—or so she thought.
“I call forth the mannequin Charon to give his testimony! What does Messalina’s lifelong servant have to say about her!? Let him go forth and speak!”
Fulvia was stunned for a moment. It took her a moment to regain her footing. “It is the gravest of laws that mannequins cannot testify against their masters. You cannot ask this.”
“It is against the law if the master does not give their permission,” I corrected the equerry and the court. “The master may choose silence if they so desire. So what does Messalina say!? Does she fear the testimony of her servant!?”
Again, there was an uproar among the nobles and masses at this question. It was taboo to ask for a mannequin’s testimony, namely because they were privy to so much. To ask a mannequin to declare against his master was a conflict of interest, but I did not expect Charon to declare against Messalina. What I expected was the only move she had available to play, a sneering disinterest.
“If this court wishes to hear the voice of the inhuman, I shudder to think what this body of justice has become. If the false courier wants to hear what House Aurelian has to say, let him hear it from me, on my honor! Do not ask a servant to speak for his master when I can speak well enough on my own!”
There were shouts of acclaim from the great chamber at Messalina’s words, as I knew there would be. They were never going to allow Charon to speak to the court freely. That was never the point of my argument. What was the point, however, was to sow a seed of suspicion. I caught a few uneasy looks among a few of the lower classes present, and while the nobles were more aptly trained in social cue, I also could not help but detect a new tension in the air. Whereas before there was a self-assured confidence, now there was a quiet worry.
“And how about Berenice then!?” I called out to Messalina. “Where is your sister to give testimony to this court? Surely she has the right to have her say before this body of law!? Or is she another inconvenient voice against your case!?”
I studied Messalina’s reaction, hoping to glean some subtle hint about what had happened to Berenice. However, her cold hatred told me nothing more than what I could already guess at. I shuddered to think of what she had done.
“My sister is grief-stricken and feeble from the actions of the accused. I could not bear to bring her today for testimony. And I beg the decency of this court to not add to the trauma that has already been afflicted on my family!” Messalina cried out, palpable concern in her voice.
Again, there were shouts of acclamation from the nobles and calls for the sentencing. Again, I snatched the opportunity from Fulvia before she had a chance. She understood well what I was doing and her fury was only increasing each time. She had given me leeway for the sake of decorum and because she thought I would surely stumble, an easy victim to offer up as entertainment for the crowds. But now I was delaying, perhaps even holding my own, and that was unacceptable.
“Messalina has denied two witnesses, while I offer up one!” I shouted just in time before she could make his pronouncement. “Will this court not hear what he has to say!?”
My voice rang out and momentarily silenced many of the braying voices calling for swift punishment—if only barely. I knew I could string this along only for so much longer. I was hoping to play to the court’s appetite for theatrics and drama, but bloodlust was still winning the day. The only reason I had gotten this far was my deep voice and resolute frame, attributes which earned me the envy of my peers less gifted in speechcraft.
But I knew one mistake would doom me. One stutter, one slight hesitation, or even one slight misreading of the room, it would give Fulvia time to make her pronouncement, and then it would be all over. We had to thread the needle, and one wrong move would cost us everything.
All eyes fell upon Gereon, as everyone already knew who I would call as a witness. I knew he had been arguing my case as best as he could since the day I had been imprisoned by Elagabalus, and I doubted he had much left to say that had not yet been said a hundred times before. And yet, the room fell to a quiet hush, anyway.
The equerry bade Gereon to stand forward, and the people surrounding him drew back. “I encountered Sirius as he was traveling through—”
“How can you let this man stand here and utter these lies!?” Messalina rudely interrupted. “You’ve already heard what he has to say! What difference would it make to repeat this deceit!”
She at once broke down and began to cry. It was clear she didn’t like the slim progress I had made among the commoners, and she had noticed Fulvia being repeatedly put on the back foot. Messalina didn’t like that, and now she was trying to ruthlessly undercut us, worried that we might—just might—come out of this.
Again, there were cries of support and anger, and then a monstrous voice boomed in the court. It came with such fury and thunder, that I scarcely recognized it as Gereon’s.
His eyes were as fierce as a raging oxaphon’s as he roared in the room. “I am a soldier of Terminus!” And he unsheathed his sword.
The entire court fell into stunned shock. Before anyone could react, he held it aloft with both hands, displaying it to the crowd rather than holding it to attack. I noticed he was showing the hilt, which was bound with silver paper and covered with lettering too small for me to make out.
“Here is the blade with which I took my oath of service! With blood and ink, I pledged my life to this city and its defense! I swore! By my honor and my love for this city, I swore!” Gereon grasped this hilt and pointed the blade straight at Messalina. “As a soldier, I will speak the truth to those I have defended with my life. And if you call me a liar again, I will cut your throat out.”
The threat was said with such righteous anger that the entire room stepped back. For the first time, I saw uncertainty in Fulvia’s eyes. The guards all had their hands on their weapons, but somehow, there was not a doubt in the room that Gereon would cut through all of them if Messalina spoke out of turn again.
I half-expected Messalina to bite back with some scathing retort or break into sobs, but wisdom prevailed in her, and she simply cowered quietly behind the crowd.
Gereon glared at the court, seeing if there was anyone else to test him, and seeing there was no one, he began again. “Of Crixus, I did not see his child’s body. However, I saw this she-devil brag of the murder to her sister. I cannot account for his actions, but I can account for the grave injustice done against him. Of Sirius, he is an honorable man and entirely innocent of the crimes laid before him. This is my testimony! And if this court cannot see sense to postpone and investigate further, then I hold my beloved city in contempt for the blood upon its hands!”
I was immediately gladdened that Gereon had seen the impatience of the equerry and chosen to play a delaying hand. I didn’t know how long that gave us, but at least—
“There is evidence this soldier is not who he claims he is!” An unfamiliar voice now spoke out.
I turned and saw a nobleman of military bearing—if not uniform. He was clean-shaven with a square face. Thinning gray hair and wrinkles told me he was in fifties, though he still carried himself with strength. I surmised this must’ve been a nobleman swayed to Messalina’s side, and judging the pride with which he held himself, one that couldn’t afford this trial be swayed in our favor.
“I have searched through our records! This man claims to have been stationed in the Cratered Forest, but we have had no outposts in that territory for years. And while I could find a soldier named Gereon bearing the same rank, he was supposed to have died nearly fifty years ago when his cowardly men mutinied upon him in battle!”
The outrage of the room turned red-hot again. I turned aghast at Gereon. Clearly Messalina’s fabrications had gone far deeper than I had thought. It was to my shock, then, that Gereon seemed completely unsurprised at this turn.
“Yes, I am he!” The outrage turned to confusion. I saw the grey-haired noble become flustered at the conviction with how Gereon quickly spoke.
“Bring out my officer’s marker! I know you have it, alongside every officer’s in your locked archives! On it is the likeness of my thumbprint! It proves I am Captain Gereon, and I am sure the Head Secretariat can confirm it is legitimate!”
The confusion in the room turned to outright pandemonium as Gereon spoke with an utter confidence that he was a dead man from fifty years ago.
I confess I did not fully understand the significance nor context of the marker since I was a foreigner to Terminus, but the effect it had was evident well enough. The room fell to complete pandemonium as Gereon stared down the equerry. Messalina was shouting and sobbing and probably calling him a liar, but she was drowned out by the noise of it all. Many were still with Messalina, calling for Gereon’s head as well as our own. However, a sizable contingent of people—mainly the soldierly and the lower class—were shouting for the marker to be brought out. I doubt they were so much as swayed to our cause, so much as prompted by curiosity of the audacity of the claim.
Guards were trying to push their way to Gereon, but they were blocked by the crowd. For myself and Crixus, we could only watch at what was happening before us. Amidst the chaos, I wondered why he had chosen to keep this information concealed until now, if it was indeed true at all, but there was no use in pondering that at the moment.
There was a crack which was barely heard in the court. I only heard it with my closer proximity to the throne. Fulvia held two slabs of granite in her hands, and she was hitting them together. It was a pity, or rather blessing, that she could not strike them hard enough to gain the room’s attention. Eventually, a guard noticed, and he took his men and forcefully brought the room back to order.
And then my inevitable mistake came. I hesitated, unsure of what to make of this new development. It was all Fulvia needed. She snarled with delight as she finally got a word in.
“A woman has been sent fleeing from her own home naked. Is that not evidence enough!?” She entreated the court. “Let us bring these affairs back to order!”
Fulvia turned to us with a delighting fury. “You admitted before us all the crime of attempted murder. If you truly had a just cause, you would’ve taken the case to the magistrate. As for the rape, you have presented no proof against it, only delaying proceedings by calling pointless witnesses. And I do not count a charlatan posing as a dead hero as evidence. Whoever you have brought here today, this is not a dead man from fifty years ago, and I will not waste time entertaining such an absurdity!”
I heard a commotion near the back and shouting. I did not turn to see what it was, but I knew there were guards arguing with someone. But honestly, that was the least of my concerns at the moment.
“Your Excellency! I fall upon your mercy!” I interrupted the equerry, trying one last plea. “At least allow us to swear oaths and journey to Calrathia!”
“You are not a courier!” Fulvia raged. “You have no manuscript, and we will give none to you. I will not allow you to take false oaths to get away with your crimes!”
My shoulders slumped, and I gave Crixus a despairing look. I had done the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. So this was the end. This was what it had all been leading to. At least, I could say I had kept my personal honor. Perhaps that was all I could’ve asked for.
Fulvia took a moment to revel in her own power. “These two vagabonds have attempted to murder and rape one of Terminus’ own, and I will punish to the fullest extant of the law! I hereby sentence you—”
The commotion grew louder, and finally it drew my attention. Stumbling from the entrance, Berenice pushed past the hesitant guards. Her dress was ripped, and she had deep gashes on her wrists where I presume she must’ve struggled loose from her bounds. In her arms she held the Historiae Astrologus, cradling it as she would a child.
She burst into the court and held the book high in the air for all to see. “Wait! Here is the manuscript of the courier!”