Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (4 page)

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By the time they reached the gladiator stables in the shadow of the Colosseo, Marcus was pleased to step into the dark, low-ceilinged building just to get out of the sun.

His pleasure lasted only a moment; the smell of sweat, leather, and blood was so strong it almost made him reel as he looked around the interior of the wooden structure. Plaques and weapons adorned the walls, separated by the occasional rude shelf holding bronze and silver cups that Marcus supposed were trophies.

Seated at a makeshift desk was a big man laboriously attempting to write numbers on ascroll. They soon learned this was the training master working at his accounts. While the big man raised his eyebrows at Sextus’s request to purchase a gladiator, he was clearly annoyed when Sextus asked to see only dwarves, and only those dwarves fighting under the aegis of the Red faction.

The time it took to summon them seemed like an eternity in that dark and odorous place, but finally the master begrudgingly presented nine of the stocky, broad-shouldered creatures. Marcus quickly realized the man’s attitude derived from his correct notion that a quick sale was not in order. None of the nine would make for a good travel companion. These dwarves were bitter, angry individuals, degraded into a near-bestial state by the harsh oppression of their slavery.

“Perhaps one of the other factions might have dwarves as well?” Marcus suggested hopefully as the last of the sneering, scowling gladiators was escorted back to the factional cells.

“Not a one,” said the training master. He was a tall, powerfully built man with a terrible scar across the left side of his face. “Whites don’t take breeds. Greens do, but they usually go in for orcs and gobbos, and those don’t mix real well with dwarves. Blues had twelve until last week, but they all got killed in the re-creation of the IronMountain siege.”

“I saw that!” Sextus said. “It was incredible. Especially that catapult they built—for a moment there I thought they were going to turn it on the crowd! Say, why do you shave their beards?”

“Reminds ’em where they are. Reminds ’em what they are.” The training master looked appraisingly at Marcus and Sextus, possibly wondering what these two wealthy young masters would want with dwarves in the first place. “They forget sometimes, else.”

“Are these all you’ve got?” Marcus said. He was doing his best to keep the distaste off his face. Not for the dwarves, for whom he only felt pity, but for the training master. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

The training master shrugged. “There’s two more up in the infirmary. I don’t know what you want with a dwarf, but neither one is up to putting up much of a fight. Unless that’s what you want, of course.”

Marcus stared at the man in disbelief. Fortunately, Sextus grabbed his arm and squeezed it before he could open his mouth. What did the man think they were, a pair of decadent thrill killers?

But then, this was Amorr, after all, and not even its public dedication to the Lord God Almighty enabled it to escape man’s fallen nature. For every saint, there were ten sinners, and for every man genuinely devoted to faith, good works, and charity, there were three given over to the worst forms of depravity and sadistic decadence. No doubt this man, laboring as he did in this terrible place, saw the evil side of man far more often than its reverse.

“Take ’em back,” the training master said to an overmuscled pair of assistants. Then he beckoned toward Marcus and Sextus. “Follow me. I’ll take you to the ones in the infirmary. They’re both good fighters, but one was lamed in the last spectacle, and the other one took a pretty good stick in the ribs.”

They followed him up the stairs and into what could easily have passed for one of the lower circles of hell.

The one-room infirmary was dark. It stank of disease and decades of blood dripping from the wounded and dying to soak into the wood of the floor. Marcus was appalled, and he saw even Sextus swallow hard at the olfactory assault on their senses. There were forty beds. A third of them were full, attended by only one slack-jawed attendant who appeared half-witted, at best.

“We keep them alive if we can,” the training master said, not blind to the reaction of his visitors. “Doesn’t pay to let them die before their time, you know. And it’s not every stable that puts poppy seed in the wine to take the edge off the pain.”

Marcus resisted the urge to point out that the man was in the business of sending these poor creatures out to die. Still, it was true: there was none of the moaning and thrashing that Marcus would have expected from such a sad collection of maimed and maltreated individuals. Most were unconscious. The two or three who were not seemed to be lost in a dreamy state that left them blessedly unaware of their surroundings. Marcus did his best to avoid looking directly at any of the ghastly injuries, but even so he saw far more than he would have wished.

The training master stopped at the bedside of a grim-faced dwarf with deep-set eyes, orange-red hair, and a somber mien. He blinked in apparent surprise at being approached.

“This here’s Lodi,” the training master said. “He took a goblin spear in the side six days ago. But he’s a tough old wardog. Took down four or five goblins and two orcs by hisself, just in that one fight alone. He’s left-handed, likes a warhammer—no surprise—but he’s not too shabby with a blade, neither. Not all that quick, but he’s patient and makes for a mean counterfighter. What do you have, Lodi, eighteen wins?”

“Twenty-three,” the dwarf answered in a deep, cracked voice. It sounded as if he had not spoken in days, which was quite possibly the case considering the level of neglect here. His eyes were glazed with either exhaustion or poppy seed, but he was coherent. “What do you want?”

“A bodyguard,” Marcus answered, stepping forward and meeting the dwarf’s eyes.

Those eyes were dark with suffering, yet contained none of the hatred or helpless fury that so indelibly marked the rest of his kin. There was a week’s growth of reddish stubble covering his face, but it was clear that not even being clean-shaven had caused this dwarf to forget that he had once been free. Blood had seeped through the dirty bandage on his side, some time ago from the dark, crusted look of it, and there was no sign of green or yellow discharge.

“Can you ride with that?”

“Won’t make for much of a bodyguard, I’d say,” Sextus commented.

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “A bodyguard?”

“Yes,” Marcus said. “I’m going on a journey and will require one.”

“Will that get me out of here?” the dwarf asked, glancing at the training master, who nodded. “You’ll have to tie me to the beast, I think, but you’ll hear no complaints from me, even if it chafes me raw.”

“Or you bleed to death?”

The dwarf turned his head toward Sextus. “It takes more than a scratch from an orc to kill a dwarf. I’ll live, and I’ll keep your friend alive too.”

Sextus glanced at Marcus and shrugged. If nothing else, the dwarf was certainly tough, and it was hard not to admire his determination.

“How much?” Marcus asked the training master.

“And we’ll expect a discount, of course,” Sextus said. “You have to admit, he’s not quite in what you’d call prime condition.”

Praeterea, homines in imagine Dei et ad similitudinem Dei creati sunt. Aelvi in imagine Dei et ad similitudinem Dei non creati sunt. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter sibi unita.

THE SUN HAD not yet risen, but Marcus was amazed by the number of clients that were already waiting in the courtyard of the Valerian house. On a normal morning there were perhaps twenty-five or thirty men of quality gathered to perform their daily ritual of paying homage to the great man and collecting their daily benefice. But today there appeared to be twice that number, even discounting the numerous household and stable slaves who were busily arranging saddlebags, checking horseshoes, and otherwise preparing Barat and the other three horses that he, Marcipor, and Lodi would take on their long journey to Elebrion.

Magnus himself had not yet appeared, but the collection of clients, some important, some insignificant, stirred nevertheless at Marcus’s approach.

One elderly man, a senator judging by the broad red stripe that marked his black tunic, was the first to greet him as the others fell back in honor of his rank, pressing a small leather bag into his hand. “We shall pray without ceasing for your mission, Marcus Valerius. Take this. It shall stand you in good stead, and may the hand of the Purified be upon you!”

“Thank you, Senator,” Marcus bowed to the nobleman and stared quizzically at the bag.

“It is the knucklebone of Saint Ansfrid of Tolanon. It is said to be a powerful rebuke to the elvish sorceries. I hardly think it likely to be of much use here in Amorr, but perhaps you may find it otherwise.”

Marcus, surprised, thanked the senator warmly, but before he could even inquire as to his name, the quiet murmuring of the waiting men abruptly rose to a hail of shouted greetings as Magnus at last deigned to grace his clients with his presence.

The great man was flanked by his three favorites as well as Lautus, his chief purser. All four slaves were carrying a quantity of velvet purses that Marcus assumed held the morning’s sportula. His uncle held up a hand, though, and the crowd fell quickly silent, although one wag in a threadbare tunic drew some chuckles when he cried out, “You’re too late, Magnus—we’re here to pay our respects to the young dominus!”

Magnus smiled thinly, visibly unamused. He gestured at Dompor, who placed one of the red purses he was carrying into Magnus’s hand. There was a clink of coins as Magnus flicked his wrist and the importunate client just managed to catch the small bag with both hands before it struck him in the face.

Amidst the laughter of his fellows, the man weighed the bag with an expression of surprise on his face, then he bowed deeply to Magnus as those around him realized that he’d been rewarded for his cheek instead of scorned. They cheered Magnus for his generosity.

“It’s a pity you don’t have the wisdom to accompany your wit, Gaius Trachalas,” Magnus admonished him. “Now, do buy yourself a cloak and a new tunic. I should be extremely disappointed to hear that you managed to lose everything at the arena before nightfall.”

“I hear and obey, dominus!”

The crowd of clients laughed. Clearly Gaius Trachalas was not unpopular despite his poverty.

Magnus did not allow them to greet him as was the usual custom. Instead he beckoned Marcus to join him, then as Marcus hastened to obey, he slipped a meaty arm around Marcus’s shoulders and gestured toward the center of the city as he addressed the throng.

“Today, my friends, I ask that you do me the honor of accompanying my nephew and I to the Quadratus Albus, where the Sanctiff will be offering a public mass on behalf of an embassy to Elebrion, which departs this morning. You need not greet me now, but do join us, and one of my men shall be sure to attend to you as we walk.”

As his clients noisily competed to be the most enthusiastic about the morning’s departure from the ordinary routine, Magnus pressed Marcus forward. The men, senators and artisans alike, parted like the waves of a black sea before a twin-hulled vessel.

The gates were already open, and a pair of armored slaves waiting there smoothly wheeled and took their places at the front of the unruly formation, each bearing a long wooden stave for use in clearing out a path for Magnus lest the crowds around the Quadratus obstruct his way. Many of Amorr’s nobles used litters borne by six, eight, or sometimes even twelve slaves, but despite his girth, Magnus, being long accustomed to all-day marches with the legions, preferred to walk.

“Gaius Trachalas’s gibes notwithstanding, it is you they honor today, lad.”

“Me?” Marcus was confused. He had little to his name, and certainly nothing worth giving an already wealthy client.

“Our house, if you prefer. I am House Valerius today, Marcus. Your father, perhaps, tomorrow. But in the weeks and years to come, it may well be the young pup who has already drawn the attention of Amorr’s mighty that shall be the dominus to whom they apply for their supper. And then, of course, they are curious.”

“Do you know, uncle, a senator gave me a saint’s relic before you appeared. A bald man, of some years.”

“Did he? Ah, that would be Publius Hosidius. A wise man, and quite right to be concerned for your health. That’s why I wished to speak with you now, as there will be no opportunity after the mass. Now listen to me. You’ll find a letter in your saddlebags that Lucipor wrote out. There’s more detail in it, but what you must understand above all is that there is a very good opportunity that you will be in danger once you reach Elebrion.”

“In danger? Me?”

“Yes, that’s why I bought you the gladiator. The dwarf. I’d have preferred to send more along with you, but that would have attracted too much attention.”

“From whom, the elves?”

Magnus snorted. “Have you learned nothing from your histories, boy? The elves? They’re the only ones from whom you have nothing to fear. Unless, of course, King Mael takes it into his head to kill you all on sight. In which case no amount of bodyguards will serve.”

“But from whom am I in danger, then, if not the elves?”

“Anyone. Everyone!” The procession halted abruptly behind them as Magnus stopped and spread out both his arms as if to encompass not only the street on which they walked but also all of Amorr. “This is a city built upon conquest, Marcus, full of men grown fat upon the conquered and enslaved. Oh, we manufacture and we trade, but first and foremost, we conquer!”

Magnus, suddenly realizing that the clients behind them were now listening to him, grunted in irritation and set off again, this time at a faster pace. He pointed toward the ground, to Marcus’s riding boots, newly made only yesterday for his journey. “There are fortunes to be made in war, and not only by those who lead the legions. How much did you pay for those?”

“My boots? Sixty sestertii.”

“And how many officers on horse in a legion?”