Empress & Soldier: Chapter 1
In which Druisius learns what it is to be a man.
“DRUISIUS!”
My father’s voice, and loud. I cannot pretend I have not heard him. At dawn, the square is nearly quiet. Only the clink of metal as locks are undone, and the creak of doors opening. A late bat chitters by. I do not stop. Over my shoulder, I call, “I am going to the warehouses.”
“Not today.” A weight descends inside me. He will want me to do the accounts with him. Talk about prices and profit and who to bribe when. At the port there will be a breeze off the sea, and ships arriving, and the blue-eyed son of the harbourmaster.
I turn. I do not want to. But he is my father, and I am not officially of age.
“Wash,” he says, “and change into a better tunic. I am going to see our patron today, and you will come with me. It is time you began to learn how to conduct yourself in his presence.”
“Take Marius,” I suggest. Knowing what he’ll say.
“Marius can go to the warehouses. This is for the oldest son.” A low moan comes from the open window of our rooms above the shop. Another reason I was heading for the harbour. He glances up.
No point in arguing. I wash in the small courtyard behind the shop, running wet hands over my hair. It will dry soon enough in the warm air, like the spilled water on the rough cobbles. My youngest sister brings me my tunic. Another cry comes from above. She looks up. “Will she die?”
I lay the tunic over a shrub and hug my sister. She is ten, a girl still. I remember my mother’s screams when she was born. “What does our mother say?”
“That all is well.”
“Then it is.” I let her go to pull the tunic over my head. She helps me straighten it. “Go and help, yes?”
Our patron—Varos—lives several miles away, his house halfway up one of the many hills of Casil. We stop on the way to buy bread and figs at a stall, and drink a cup of water at one of the fountains. “Not too much,” my father warns. “We will have a long wait.”
By the time we reach the house I am sweating. I would like more water. There is a guard at the gate, his skin as dark as ours. “Salvius, good morning. Is this your boy?”
“Druisius, my oldest. Are there many before us?” he asks, not in Casilan, but in the language of his country. I was born there, but I do not remember much. Just ships, and the rough seas of the voyage, and arriving at the harbour. The lighthouse had been a wonder.
“Some,” the guard replies. “Go in.”
Inside the house is cool and dark. As my eyes adjust I see painted figures on the walls, and statues in hollows. Light gleams at the end of the corridor. I hear water running, but we turn into a room only a few steps from the door. A square room, with benches lining the walls, more in the centre. Several men sit along the far wall, on cushioned seats under windows. They nod to us. My father guides me to a bench without cushions, on the opposite wall.
Other men arrive. Those in fine tunics, wearing sandals of worked leather, take seats under the windows. Those dressed like my father and me choose the hard seats, and one or two in even coarser tunics crouch against the wall closest to the door.
At the far end of the room a door opens. A man steps out, looking around the room. He holds a writing tablet. Without asking names he begins to make a list. I look beyond him, into the room he has left. At a large table, I see a man, grey-haired, clean shaven, his shoulders a little stooped. This is Varos, yes?
A smile softens his face. A girl maybe a year or two older than my youngest sister comes to his side. Her hair is the colour of new copper, her skin as pale as bleached cloth. The man says something to her. She leans in to kiss his cheek before moving from view.
I glance at my father. He has also been watching. “Eudekia,” he whispers to me. “His daughter.”
The first of the well-dressed men stands to follow the secretary into the office. When his footsteps on the flagged floor cease, I hear, from the corridor, a girl’s light voice. She is asking what sounds like a question. A man replies quietly. They are not speaking Casilan, or any language I know from the docks. I touch my father’s arm, tilt my head, frown.
He listens for a moment. “I do not know,” he murmurs.
We have been here an hour, more. How long will I have to sit? The poor men crouched against the wall doze. Two of the important men begin to talk in low tones. I lean back on the bench, close my eyes. Listening, not sleeping. They will not notice. At the harbour I carry cargo, stack amphorae. My body does the work. My ears listen.
They talk of war. Where? War changes things for merchants. Supplies are needed. Or sources of grain and oil are cut off. The war is to the east. But it was small, I hear, and over. They speak of a trial. Some official who has overstepped his authority and will be executed. This will not affect us.
The door into Varos’s office opens. One man leaves. Two—the two who spoke—go in. There are only three more. If no one else comes, we will be gone by midday. I hope. Maybe I can go to the harbour then. I think of the blue-eyed boy, the cool dark of the warehouse, salt on my lips. I cross my legs, stare at the ceiling. I think of Bernikë’s cries in the dawn. She is fifteen. My older sister, my parents say.
Finally it is our turn. I follow my father into the office. The secretary closes the door, takes a seat at a smaller table. We stand.
“Salvius.” The grey-haired man behind the desk greets my father with apparent pleasure. Or no displeasure, at least. “And who is this?”
“My oldest boy. Druisius. With your leave, sir, I thought it time he began to learn more than the loading of ships.”
“Of course. Please sit.” Two stools stand in front of the man’s desk. I take the one closest to the secretary. I glance around the room. Shelves of books line the walls. Has this man read them all? There is a gameboard on a table. I recognize xache. My father plays it sometimes in the square.
“What may I do for you today?” Varos asks.
“I would like to buy another ship,” my father says. He has spoken of this over dinner. More people come to Casil every year. The demand for oil and grain grows. My uncles, who still live across the Nivéan sea, say they can fill another hold.
Varos asks questions. My father answers them. The secretary writes. I do my best to pay attention.
“How much do you need?” Varos asks.
My father shakes his head. “It is not money I need, sir. My brothers and I can finance the ship. It is the licences.”
“I see.” Varos turns his attention to me, without warning. “Druisius. What licences does your father speak of?”
Why is he asking me? But I know. Someday I am to take my father’s place. Our patron is testing me. “For the docks,” I tell him. “To allow a ship to berth. And to rent another warehouse, if we need it.”
We could just apply, bribe the clerks, wait half a year or more. If this man uses his influence to get us the licence, what does he ask in return?
“If?” Varos asks. “Do you need another warehouse?” He holds up a hand to stop my father from replying. I picture our warehouse. Think about how it fills when the ships arrive. How many barge-loads and cartloads it takes to empty it again. Although it is never empty. To make space, then. I consider, calculate.
“Ships do not always arrive when they should,” I say. “Carts lose wheels, mules break legs. How much space do we need?” I spread my hands, palms up. My father’s gesture. A merchant’s. “Another ship’s cargo should not make us need another warehouse. But it might. So we need to be able to rent it for those times, yes?”
“And for that you need a licence.” Varos nods. “You are training your son well, Salvius.” His words bring an inner shudder.
“He is learning,” my father says. “Later this summer I plan to send him on his first voyage.” Surprise replaces the shudder. It shows on my face, I know. He has not told me this, even though I have been asking for a year or more.
“I will arrange the licences,” Varos tells us.
“Thank you, sir,” my father says. I repeat his words. Varos stands as we do.
“Tell the others to come back tomorrow,” he says to his secretary. “I must go to the forum.”
Outside, the day is even hotter. I turn to my father. “I am going across the sea? Soon?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Your answer was good, and correct. But understand I will be sending you to your uncles to learn the other side of the trade.”
“Not just a voyage?” I ask. “To live there?” I think of the blue-eyed boy, with a little regret.
“For a year or two. A marriage—” He stops, his lips twisting a little.
I shrug. He is not bothered by my nature. One of my uncles is the same. “Marius will marry.”
“And if Bernikë’s baby is a boy, we will adopt him as a son.”
At the bottom of the hill, where a wider street runs, shouting makes us both turn. Marching soldiers, and behind them a jeering crowd. What is happening?
“A foolish man,” my father murmurs. He must see my frown, because he adds, “Were you not listening when we waited?”
The execution. Of course. “Who was he?”
“The governor of Odïrya. He made war against a people who are Casil’s allies, for his own gain.” He hesitates, glances at the house behind us. “I should go to the forum, to stand with Varos in case there is trouble. It is what we do for our patrons.”
“I should come too, yes?” The idea is exciting.
His eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then, to my surprise, he nods. “Stay close to me.”
The faint clang of metal behind us catches my attention. I turn, to see the red-haired girl with a man, tall and bald. They have come out of a gate in the wall.
She looks down the street at the yelling crowd. Her companion—her tutor, I think—says something to her. His hand touches her arm. She turns, reluctantly. But not before her eyes meet mine, and she smiles a little. Eudekia, I remember.
The air is heavy. My father is too. His arm is across my shoulders, and he limps. More now than he did an hour ago, but we are nearly home. Thunder rolls to the north, distant. Sweat stings my eyes.
The forum had been crowded. We had pushed through, my father using Varos’s name, until we stood near him. Not too close to the steps of the Assembly where the prisoner stood. Not too far away, either. Our patron had to be seen to witness, my father whispered.
The prisoner had been allowed to use the knife himself. He had held its point against his belly, tilted upward, staring out at us. Cords stood up on his neck. His lips moved, thinned. He closed his eyes, drove in the long blade. Around us, gasps, shouts, cheers. Inside me, a shiver. Almost pleasurable.
Soldiers catch the falling body, begin to drag it away. Varos turns, his personal guard flanking him. The crowd parts, enough to let him through. The man who greeted us this morning nods to my father.
“He will tell our patron we were here?” I ask my father.
“Yes. Home now, Druisius.”
But in the press of bodies he slips, or trips. A loose flagstone, maybe. He falls heavily, an ankle bent beneath him. Another man helps me raise him. He takes a step, another, grimacing. “Not broken,” he says. We walk, slowly. At first his hand is only on my shoulder, but soon he leans on me more and more.
Our square opens out from the narrow street. We reach our shop. He collapses onto a bench outside it. “Fetch your mother,” he directs. “And wine.”
I climb the stairs, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. I call for my mother. Above me, on the third floor, I hear footsteps. My smallest sister clatters down the stairs. “It’s a girl!” she announces.
“Patra is hurt. A sprained ankle,” I add, at her look of fright. “Fetch Matra.”
She comes. I follow her outside, remembering the wine. A cup for me, too. My mother scolds my father and sends my sister for ointments and cloth. To me, she says, “Go to the apothecary. Tell him willow-bark and valerian.”
When I return, they are indoors, my father seated. His leg is propped on a stool. My mother mixes willow-bark in wine and gives it to him. He drinks it down, scowling. His face is dark with displeasure, as dark as the clouds over the city.
“Bring it to me,” he says.
I see my mother’s mouth twitch. She bites her lips, says nothing. Her steps up the stairs are slow. But even slower, down. In her arms is a small bundle.
She kneels at my father’s feet, pulls aside the wrap. The baby is tiny, and asleep. Her eyes are closed tight. Like a newborn kitten.
My father looks down at her. No expression. My mother raises her arms, offering him the child. He shakes his head.
“Salvius?” she whispers. Pleads. She does not plead, my mother. My gut tightens.
“No,” he says, his voice hard. “We have no need of another girl. Three are enough.” He has the right. The baby’s father is dead, lost in a storm on the Nivéan Sea. Before he and Bernikë could marry, not that it matters.
“Druisius. Take it away.”
I stare at him. Take it away? Where? But I know what he means. I will not do this.
“No,” I say.
“You will,” he says. “I cannot walk.” I shake my head. Bernikë is my sister.
“We have new licences,” I say. “Another ship. She will not cost much.”
He growls his displeasure at my defiance. “Druisius.” My mother. “Do it now, please. Bernikë is asleep. I have not let her hold the baby.” My mother has lost children. She knows. Better my sister wakes to the baby gone.
The wine I drank is sour in my stomach. My mother holds out the child. “Where?” How did I ask that? I take her. One small hand reaches up, the fingers unfurl. I see the pink of her palm before she curls the fingers again. Her eyes remain closed.
“The riverbank,” my father says. Anger rises in me. At my father. At myself.
“Marius can go with you,” my mother offers.
“No!” I will not involve him. I cannot find other words to say. I hold the baby to my shoulder and descend the stairs.
Outside it is darker than it should be. But I know the way to the river, since I could walk.
The baby sleeps. I am glad of this. I reach the river, and the quays where the barges tie up. There is almost no one out now, evening, a storm threatening. Now where? I cannot just leave her in the open. There are dogs, and birds with strong beaks.
I stand, hesitant. Suddenly the baby wails. Such a sound from something so small. What do I do? I move her from my shoulder. Her eyes are clenched shut, but her mouth is open wide. Without thinking I begin to sing, a lullaby I know from my mother. I touch the baby’s lips with one finger. She closes her mouth, sucking.
“Druisius?” I look up. One of the city guard approaches me. “What have—ah.” He stops beside us. “A girl.” I nod.
“Take her down to the bridge,” he says. He gestures with his chin. “Put her in the alcove by the first arch. Temple servants check there.”
Temple servants? “What will they do with her?”
He shrugs. “Make her one of them, if she lives. Or something. Does it matter?”
It doesn’t. I thank him. I can tell Bernikë what I did, secretly. The guard has continued on his patrol. I call to him. He turns. “Don’t tell my father.”
He nods. “I won’t.”
I stop, look back. For the tenth time, maybe more. The alcove had been dry. Sheltered. I’d wrapped her tightly. She hadn’t cried. When do the servants come?
A drop of rain strikes my face, then another. She is inside the alcove, and the night is warm. I keep walking, my feet reluctant. Water soaks my tunic, streaks my cheeks. I am glad of it. It hides the tears.
At home I take off my wet sandals, wipe rain from my hair and limbs. Then I climb the stairs. My family, except Bernikë, are in the big room. Lamps are lit against the night. I go straight to the next set of stairs, up to where we sleep. “I’m wet,” I mutter, as I pass.
Bernikë is crying. I hear her from the room I share with Marius. I strip, find dry clothes, dress. Barefoot, quietly, I go to my sister.
One lamp burns. Her cheeks shine. I crouch beside her bed. Whispering, I tell her what I did with her baby. She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
“Really?” she whispers. I nod. “She will be safe?”
“The guard said so.”
“Did she cry?” I shake my head.
“Fausta,” she says. “I would have called her Fausta.” For her father. Fortune did not smile on him. Maybe on his daughter.
I lean over her bed. Hug her awkwardly. She clings to me. It was to me she turned, when word came of Faustus’s death. And earlier. I remember holding her, on the voyage here. Calming her fears. Ten years past.
There is no talk of what I have done, when I go downstairs. Instead, my father speaks of the new ship. They will buy one already in service, he says, not wait for the shipwrights. He knows who is interested in selling. Tomorrow he will show us, Marius and me, at the docks.
Food is brought. I eat, but not much. Rain spatters against the shutters, hard, like thrown pebbles. Will temple servants be out in this? My mother brings me more wine, glances too at the window. “Rain will make it quicker,” she murmurs. I look away, sip the wine. It is not watered.
My sisters leave, the middle one to help my mother, the youngest to bed. The rain is relentless. I try to shut it out. She will be dry, I tell myself.
“There is a ship to be unloaded,” my father tells us. “Oil. Then reloaded, with cloth. When it sails, Druisius will be on it.”
So soon? But thinking of it is a relief.
“Why can’t I go?” Marius asks.
“I cannot spare you both. Druisius is the oldest.”
“By one year,” Marius mutters.
I stare at my father. I am not fourteen. He knows this, and so do I.
“Druisius is a man now,” he says.
Anger rises. In my mind I see the red-haired girl this morning. Her father’s smile. The slave-tutor’s attention. This father did not care his child was a girl.
“What will happen to Bernikë now?” I ask. The words come from nowhere.
“I will find her a husband. Someone advantageous to us,” he says. “She is proven fertile. It will not be difficult.”
She is a commodity to trade. All the girls are. My hands stretch, clench. Every muscle tightens. I see again the prisoner this morning, the thrust of the knife. The blood. The oblivion.
I stand. I cannot stay here. In the wet dark maybe I will find what I need.
I walk. Away from our house. Away from the river. Streets narrow. Houses grow taller, more crowded. The cobbles run with water. Washing away unwanted things. I am drenched to the skin. But where I am going it will not matter.
If I am a man, I can come here. Alone. At night. I pull a coin from my belt, hand it to the doorman. He gives me a hard look. I give one back. He nods.
Inside, plaster peels, gods and scraptae flaking away. The air is thick, humid, smelling of smoke and men. Where to go? The pools? It is not the heat of water I want.
I go to the tables, strip, lie on the stone. Strong hands push at my back, fingers pressing in. It’s not enough. “Harder,” I say. His fists drum on my spine. “Harder. Hurt me.”
He stops. “Do as I say,” I command. “I am paying you.” He doesn’t respond. Rage surges, pushing me up. I raise a hand to hit.
He grabs my raised wrist, puts his other hand on my chest. He is older than me, muscled. Strong. In the heat, wearing only a cloth around his hips. I struggle to breathe, or move. His fingers tighten on my arm. A smile on his lips. “Not here,” he says.
Small rooms, on the back wall. No light but that from the corridor, seeping past the ill-fitting door. His hand is tight on my shoulder. Then turns me, roughly. He slaps my face, hard. I drive a fist into his chest. A low laugh, before he hits me again. Not a slap, this time. I pound his body with my clenched hands. One big arm pulls me to him. I bite, and he makes a sound that is not pain. He is hard against me, and I am too, and this hurts and yet doesn’t and I can forget, except one thing. I am a man.
One chapter in and so much has already happened!
Much enjoyed. Thank you!