12
ROSARIUS
SARASINIA
Rosarius was on crowd control duty in the Temple District. “Did you know,” he said to Borrego, “that this has long been one of my favourite places?”
Borrego arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Rosarius, gesturing broadly. “I dunno. All these old buildings move me in a way I can’t really explain. There’s something fascinating about vaulted ceilings and fluted marble pillars, don’t you think? And the cobbled streets… I mean, how old are all these stones? A thousand years at least. History. History!”
“I think,” said Borrego, looking at him out of the corner of an eye, “the sun might be getting to you.”
The Temple District was beautiful, but at the moment it was also crawling with peasants. Rosarius watched as a street urchin raked a cobblestone loose with his bare feet. “See that?” he asked, pointing the kid out. “Did you see what that little fuck just did? That stone was probably there when the city was founded. For all we know, Sarasin himself walked on it! Little bastard doesn’t give a shit about history.”
Borrego scowled. “When they built the Temple District, Sarasin had already been dead a few hundred years.”
He shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really.”
“Well, even so... fuck that kid.” Rosarius turned his attention back to the peasants. He couldn’t imagine filthier, more uncultured wretches. To his left, a pair of misshapen freaks were breaking up hedges for toothpicks. On the right, a woman stood in a fountain while simultaneously drinking and washing her arse. At her feet, a boy chipped away at a statue with a rock. “And what the fuck is he doing?”
Borrego looked. “I don’t know. Carving his name?”
“Fuck me. Look at what they’re doing to the place, will you? Why are they even allowed here?”
Borrego tossed his head, indicating the way they’d originally come. “We should go back to the scaffold. If we hang around here too long, we’re going to get separated from the others.”
“Right,” said Rosarius. A pity. He’d have liked to have given Statue Boy a taste of his cudgel at least.
The morning wore on, and the Temple District filled with peasants until there was barely room to move.
“I do get what you mean about them, though,” said Borrego, breaking the silence. “They really are disgusting, aren’t they?”
“Aren’t they?” said Rosarius. “I hate them. I think it’s criminal how they let them in here.” He tightened his grip on his cudgel. “If I don’t get to kill a few today, it’ll be a shitty day indeed.”
Borrego chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get your chance.”
“Good.” He glared at the wretches. Dead-eyed, slack-jawed fuckers. Look at them, hooting at their own stupid jokes and stories! He couldn’t even understand what half of them were saying. “Fuck off!” he yelled at a malformed thing of indeterminate gender that came over with its hand outstretched. The creature flinched and looked daggers at him before shuffling away.
And then at long last there was movement on the scaffold. A prisoner was brought out, a man surrounded by a cadre of hooded guards.
“So,” said Rosarius, looking up, “there really is an execution, eh?”
“Certainly appears that way,” said Borrego.
The governor of Sarasinia made his entrance soon after. Dressed in a fine red cloak, he strode to the edge of the scaffold and called for silence. It was a good long while before he received it, though, since the peasants seemed more interested in hurling abuse at his prisoner.
Rosarius paid almost no attention to the governor’s speech. The man began with the expected flowery praise for the League, for its capital, and for the Grand Magistrate. He rattled off a long list of Eusebio’s achievements, interspersed with platitudes and other rubbish that the crowd embraced with enthusiastic applause and resounding cheers. “What a load of horse shit,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Mm,” said Borrego.
The governor waited again, much longer this time, until the noise receded. He then launched into a rambling monologue about justice, peace, and something about full bellies. Or empty ones, maybe, because Rosarius was beyond caring. Though he willed his ears not to hear anything else, he still managed to catch the words ‘safety’, ‘prosperity’ and ‘strength.’
“Is he still talking about the League?” he asked Borrego.
Borrego leaned in. “I dunno. I was too busy watching that girl’s arse.” He pointed out the arse he meant.
Rosarius had to concede it was indeed a good one. “Nice. What would you give it out of ten?”
“Eight.”
“Agreed.”
The governor went on to mention something about war, and Rosarius was all ears at that point. But the man made only passing references to the League’s ongoing efforts to put down insurrection in Middle Romelia, and spoke even less about the invasion of Ahrenia. He talked much more about what he termed ‘treachery closer to home’ and Rosarius lost interest again. He had hoped for actual news, not rhetoric.
The governor droned on, his speech punctuated here and there by shouting and applause from the crowd. The tone of his speech shifted, and he began to speak hotly of meting out justice. Rosarius looked up at the scaffold.
“And this man here,” shouted the governor, a finger aimed squarely at the prisoner, “is the most odious of the lot. He stands accused of the worst of crimes. Yes, you know of what I speak! This man plotted to kill the Grand Magistrate, Lord Eusebio, in his own home, in cold blood!”
As if on cue, the crowd booed.
“Oh, fuck off,” yelled Rosarius. “Manufactured incident, much?” No sooner had he finished his outburst than someone tapped his shoulder. He turned to see the drillmaster staring back at him.
“Were I you,” said Minten in a low voice, “I’d keep my opinions to myself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rosarius.
“Good lad.” And with that, the man stalked away.
“Careful, Rosy,” said Borrego.
Rosarius cringed inwardly. “Yeah.” What an idiot he was! Eusebio’s spies were everywhere, and the last thing he needed was to be denounced as a traitor. None of the nearby peasants had overheard, though, of that he was sure. And he was in safe company otherwise, because even if they’d caught his comment, his Bastion brothers could be trusted not to spill their guts. Romelo didn’t count, naturally, but Romelo was still on extended leave thanks to a combination of Minten’s knout, the Hole, and his recent public humiliation.
“Behold!” shouted the governor, pointing again at the prisoner. “Our true enemy! Those who seek to undermine our mighty League with their poisonous intrigues.” He paused, arms outstretched, and the audience responded to his accusations with loud jeers. Some took the opportunity to toss unidentifiable bits of rubbish up onto the scaffold.
The governor continued. “But in fact,” he cried, “these pathetic criminals have achieved the opposite. Their scheming will never succeed! We are stronger than ever! The Romelian uprising is being crushed as we speak! We are rooting out the separatists among us! We are conquering the north! We are unstoppable! We. Are. Sarasinians!”
The crowd’s approval was deafening.
Rosarius mulled the governor’s words over, thinking it odd how he had chosen to lump the Ahren invasion in with the Romelian insurgency. Neither liked the League, naturally, but that didn’t mean they were working together. As far as he knew, the two shared no connection. On the other hand, since pretty much everything the man had said was rubbish anyway, what real difference would it make?
And then the governor’s real work began. He seized the prisoner by the hair. “This man,” he shouted, “this would-be murderer! He did not act alone. More reprisals will follow, I guarantee you that. But for now, I invite you all to witness the Grand Magistrate’s justice!”
Segments of the crowd roared their hate for the prisoner. Others cheered, no doubt anxious to see him punished.
“No mercy!” screamed the governor, foamy spittle bursting from his lips.
“No mercy!” echoed the crowd. “No mercy! No mercy! No mercy!”
The guards dragged the prisoner to the edge of the scaffold. Blood dribbled as he tried to speak. His voice was lost in the din. The governor, apparently incensed by the fact that he would even make the attempt, drove a gauntleted fist into his face. The man sagged back into the arms of his minders.
The governor called for quiet. As before, it was slow in arriving. “I may have neglected to mention,” he shouted, “that this wretch–this venomous traitor!–took gold in exchange for the death of the Grand Magistrate. Yes, gold! And that is why, my dear compatriots, prior to his appearance before you today, we had him swallow a few of those precious coins. Oh yes, that’s right, good people! You heard me correctly. This man here has gold in his guts, quite literally. This criminal, and his gold, the great city of Sarasinia now gives to you!”
The guards dangled the prisoner by his ankles over the side of the scaffold. The crowd surged toward him, hundreds of arms reaching skyward.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Rosarius.
As it happened, no one was shitting anyone. The guards relaxed their grip on prisoner who plummeted and disappeared into the roiling sea of peasants. They howled like animals as they pulled him apart in a frenzy of grasping hands. It was easily the most appalling end Rosarius had ever seen, although he had to admit it was mercifully quick. The crowd’s compassion was entirely unintentional, of course, but still.
A lucky few found gold, perhaps, but the vast majority came away with nothing. The festive mood began to sour. Red with gore, people snarled and spat and shoved at each other. Fistfights broke out. The crush of bodies made escape impossible, and the inhuman howling started up again. Rosarius cursed as a gobbet of something landed on his shield with a wet plop. It looked like a scrap of raw meat.
“Shit,” said Borrego. “Now they’re tearing each other apart!”
Their gruesome duty complete, the governor and his guards departed. The crowd roared in fury and frustration.
“Bastion!” screamed Minten. “Shield wall! Advance! Drive them out! Advance, advance, advance!”
“Advance!” cried Rosarius. And fuck the shield wall! He was so eager for blood that he charged off alone, screaming. His cudgel found a man’s shoulder. Watching him crumple made his soul sing with savage pleasure. He’d have raked the bastard’s back with his hobnails for good measure, too, except they were still in his quarters. Wearing hobnails on paved streets would have been a very bad idea.
For their part, peasants seemed more than willing to take on the Bastion’s students. “Get them!” bellowed someone. Fighting broke out everywhere.
Rosarius grunted as a woman hurled herself against his shield. He rammed his cudgel into her ribs, and as she dropped away clutching herself, punched her with his shield boss and knocked her out. He managed to get in a few kicks before another woman dragged her away. “Fuck you!” he screamed, snarling as he laid about him with his cudgel. This was fun–he’d have smacked skulls all day if he could! But the peasants, enjoying no advantage except numbers, stood little chance of winning. They soon lost their appetite for melee and ran. Though he’d have loved nothing better than to pursue, it was too risky. He watched them go.
Borrego caught up to him. “So, you got what you wanted, eh?”
“I did,” said Rosarius, feeling a curious mix of satisfaction and disappointment. “I wanted them gone, but now I wish they’d come back!”
Borrego acknowledged the irony with a snort. “Yep.”
Fallen peasants littered the Temple District. Some moved, a few called out in pain, but most lay still, trails of blood snaking away from their broken bodies. A man who had been feigning unconsciousness suddenly lurched upright and bolted. With a whoop, Rosarius ran him down and meted out such a vicious beating that he would probably never rise again.
“Bastion!” It was the drillmaster. “Form up at the scaffold!”
Minten was not the sort to dismiss his students early, and today was no exception. After calling for volunteers to finish off those peasants judged unlikely to recover, he had his charges fetch carts for the dead. Rosarius helped load the bodies, but where the carts went afterwards, he didn’t know or care. It was only when Minten declared the Temple District clear that anyone was permitted to return to the barracks.
Rather than go back straight away, Rosarius found himself examining the spot where the prisoner had met his fate. Flies scattered as he knelt beside the remains, buzzing their irritation. Aside from a few bones with bits of flesh still stuck to them, not much was left. A man’s entire life reduced to a stain, he mused. More or less. Even the skull had been broken and stamped into the cobbles.
Another student joined him. “Was there even any gold, do you think?”
Rosarius glanced up, then got to his feet. “Lucius?” He almost couldn’t believe his eyes. “Hey, how are you? Gods, I had no idea you’d be here today!”
“It’s a good day to die, brother,” said Lucius. He offered a hand.
Rosarius embraced him instead. “A good day to die with you, brother! How are you?”
“Fine. I guess.”
“That was quite the afternoon, wasn’t it? Did you have fun?”
Lucius shrugged. “Watching another bogus execution, you mean? Followed by us beating a bunch of defenceless people? And then braining the survivors? Oh yeah, great fun.”
Rosarius laughed. “Well I loved every moment of it.”
“Did you?” asked Lucius, shuddering. “Did you really? Seventeen people died here today, Rosarius. And we murdered them.” He shook his head. “Four of them were children.”
“So? They were just peasants.”
“That’s cold, brother. Even for you.”
It was Rosarius’s turn to shrug. “Who cares?”
“Well,” said Lucius tiredly, “not you, I suppose. So, it’s been a while, brother. Eh?”
“Yeah,” said Rosarius. “Haven’t seen you since...” The image of Lucius running away with his hands pressed to his face flashed through his mind. He could practically hear the screaming and the steel and Romelo’s manic laughter. “Not since the big fight in the city.”
Lucius pointed to his jaw, bandaged beneath his helm and aventail. “See what I got for my trouble that night? Fucking thing won’t heal.”
Rosarius nodded. “How could I forget, brother? I knew you must have been hurt. Have you been to the infirmary?”
“I have. I gotta say, this one’s a strange wound, Rosy. It doesn’t heal, then it does, then it doesn’t again. I’m a bit worried about it.”
“How long have you been back?”
Lucius ignored the question. “Hey, so I heard you guys went to the Hole?”
“We sure did. I’ve since been in again and everything.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yeah.” He pulled off his gauntlets to show Lucius the scars on his wrists. “The first time’s the worst. After that, it’s really not so bad.”
The corners of Lucius’s mouth turned up slightly. “Heh, good one.”
Rosarius looked at him. Did his friend think he was joking? “Eh? Oh, and the last time I went, they put Romelo in as well.”
“I heard about your dining hall incident, actually.”
“He went home the same day he got out. Sick leave. I’m hoping he’s actually sick and never recovers.”
“It’s not good to wish ill on other people.”
“Fuck that.” Rosarius spat. “I hope he dies. Because if he comes back, I’ve half a mind to leave the Bastion for good.”
“You serious? Why?”
“Because things between us are bad, Lucy. Real bad. He turned his whole hate campaign against Riva into a hate campaign against me. You know, I’ve actually been toying with the idea of heading north to get away. Not that I really want to, but I dunno.”
“North?”
“Yeah. To join the Ahren invasion.”
“What? You’re kidding, right?”
Rosarius shook his head. “No, I am not.”
“But you can’t go north!”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing,” said Lucius, clapping Rosarius on the shoulder, “we’re not officers yet. Graduation’s still a way off, brother.”
“Yeah, I know, but I wouldn’t be joining as a grunt or anything. They’d probably at least make me a sergeant.”
Lucius shook his head. “A sergeant? Fuck that, Rosarius! Come on, what are you talking about? What would your father say? You’ve come this far. You can’t do that to him.”
Rosarius sighed. “He doesn’t give a shit. And I don’t give a shit about what he thinks, anyway. Look, Romelo will be back soon enough, probably. What then? You don’t know how bad it’s gotten, brother. You know how he is, though. I can’t keep looking over my shoulder forever.”
“And your solution is to run? If it’s really as bad as you say, maybe you should just stay out of his way?”
“Just stay out of his way?” Rosarius was getting angry now. “More like he needs to stay out of my way. He’s already threatened to kill me. More than once, actually.”
“Why not challenge him, then? Single combat.”
“I wish people would stop saying that! You know I can’t.”
Lucius blew out his cheeks, then put a hand to his jaw. “Ah, shit.”
Rosarius grasped Lucius by the arm. “You’re starting to bleed through your bandages.”
“It’s nothing. Look, you’re not going north, do you hear me?”
Rosarius nodded. “Yeah. No, I know. I’ll have to find a way to deal with Romelo when he comes back, though. It’s either him or me at this point.”
“You still have friends, you know. Hey, by the way I brought you a gift.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“This,” said Lucius. And with that, he drove his cudgel into Rosarius’s groin. It wasn’t a powerful blow, but neither was it gentle.
Rosarius doubled over. “Ow! You cunt! What was that for?”
“I’ve been back maybe a fortnight!” cried Lucius. “Which you knew because you spent it giving me the brush off. Why? I thought we were friends.”
“Ungh,” said Rosarius, cradling his nuts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Everyone said you’d changed after that night.”
“I just apologised to you...”
“You weren’t the only one there, Rosy. You weren’t the only one affected.”
“I realise that.”
“So why act like you were? Mora and Milo both ended up losing their fucking hands. Or did you not know that?”
“Shit.” Rosarius looked at him. “Oh, gods. No, I didn’t know that.”
“They’re gone, brother. We’ll never see them again. Gone from the Bastion for good, and for what?”
Rosarius hung his head, unable to reply.
“And I don’t even know what happened to Benton. I sent his father a letter a while ago, but I’ve heard nothing back. Poor fucker might have died for all we know.”
Rosarius drew himself up and took a deep breath. His balls were tingling and it was a challenge to keep from tearing up. “Yeah. This is kind of why I just want to run away.”
“Yeah. Well. You’re not the only one who hates Romelo’s guts right now.”
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“Yeah, so you said. But don’t take my fucking friendship for granted again. All right?”
Rosarius met his gaze. “I won’t.”
Lucius nodded, and they shook hands. “Good.” He spat and it came out red.
“What now?”
“I had a question for you, actually.”
“What is it?”
Lucius squinted against the sun. “Is it true that when they put Romelo in the Hole, he shrieked like a slut getting railed by an entire squadron?”
“Yep.” Rosarius snickered. “To be fair, though, pretty much everyone does the first time. I know I did.”
“Ah.”
“Hey,” said Rosarius, an idea forming in his mind. “Why are we still standing here when we’re dismissed? Want to find the others and head for a decent drinking hole? I’ve a mind to get completely shitfaced.”
“Can’t.” Lucius frowned. “Haven’t we got a class soon?”
“Only ethics. If it’s not marching or fighting, who the fuck cares? Just skip it.”
“Shit, no! I don’t need the demerits.”
“Who gives a shit?”
“Well not you, apparently.”
“I doubt you’ve got anywhere near as many demerits as me, anyway And a few demerits never stopped anyone from graduating, did they?”
Lucius sighed. “Eh, I don’t know about that.” He spat again, and again it came out red. “Besides, you won’t learn anything by skipping lessons.”
“Ethics, though? Ethics is bullshit.”
“Oh, I dunno. I think it’s pretty useful, actually.”
“Pfft. Fuck that.”
“What’s wrong with ethics?”
Rosarius laughed. “You want to know what’s wrong with it? Look, at the last ethics class I bothered going to, they were asking whether or not it was a crime for a front-line commander to burn down a house full of enemy women and children.”
“And? What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s a stupid fucking question! I say burn the house and be done with it–our job is to kill the enemy, isn’t it?”
“I remember that class, brother. The point was about sparing innocents. Why kill people who don’t need to be killed?”
“Because they’re not us.” Rosarius folded his arms. “Why agonise over whether or not to spare them?”
“I still don’t see what’s so wrong with that, though?”
“A front-line commander’s job,” said Rosarius hotly, “is to kill the enemy and preserve the lives of his own men! Not fret over the fate of people on the other side. Muddy the waters, and he loses focus. Make him second guess everything, and he starts losing battles.”
“But–”
“No! And did you ever think that maybe it’s the Assemblymen who start wars that should be the ones worrying after all those poor innocents? Let them take ethics classes and leave the men whose job it is to fight their fucking wars alone. Huh? How about that?”
Lucius sighed. “I do see your point, Rosarius. I just find the whole thing a bit sad, that’s all.”
“And now,” said Rosarius, flushing with anger. “Now I’m off to get stinking drunk!”
“Yeah.”
“With or without you, Lucius. But I’d rather it be with you, so let’s go.”
“Well,” said Lucius, allowing himself to be led away. “You know, after chatting with you, I feel like maybe I do need a drink.”