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Alexander had hoped the General would weigh in on the matter independently, delivering a final judgment on the proposition. He did not expect to be dismissed so abruptly, and stood dumbly for a moment with the pen still in his hand as he tried to decide what to do with it. Of course, after a moment, he remembered it was not his, and he left it on the writing desk on top of the blank book.
He turned, bowed to each of them, ending with the highest-ranking, the General before letting himself out of the front door.
Alexander spent the minutes in the cool summer air — which, when compared to daytime, made the stench of the City considerably more tolerable — contemplating the events of this past evening. The identity of this Uterides continued to dog him, but try as he might he could not remember who the man was. In fact, it was so unfamiliar to him that he believed it was possible he had never heard of the man before. It was unlikely, given his own determination to memorize names and faces, but it was possible. A million people lived in the City, he could not possibly know them all.
And yet he could not help but feel as though Uterides were a man whom he should know. Someone with influence great enough to pluck him from obscurity into the chambers of men far above his station, to force or otherwise cajole them into letting him participate, though anyone with eyes could have seen they did not think him necessary. Though, they may have found me useful, he mused to himself.
As he washed his face and shoulders in the basin by the copper mirror, he reevaluated his contribution to the project. While he had not come in prepared, he had made two important points. To collapse the time from arousal of the crowd to enlistment, and to allow the crowd itself to participate in the execution of the assassins. Both of these, though one was markedly less significant of a suggestion than the other, would prove useful to help alleviate the General’s problems. This appeared to be a matter of course.
What bothered him still was his inability to understand the personal impacts of the contributions he had made. Would he be commended by his superior for his work tonight? It seemed unlikely. The clandestine nature of his transmittal cast doubt on this. Perhaps this Uterides would summon him to help resolve other matters, as they arise. Was this the nature of upwards movement through the Maejorii? He wondered to himself, stripping out of his tunic A life full of midnight knockers and private summons, whirled off to solve crises with little context or foreknowledge? He could decide how he felt about it. On the one hand, any recognition, however public, was beneficial. To move in small circles with little renown was not a bad situation so long as he was able to apply himself toward great works and collaborate with the most powerful. On the other hand, he very much wanted a formal movement from his current occupation as a clerk in the Maejorii to something of more significance, reflecting his capacities and achievements.
As he put himself to bed he decided he would have to wait the few hours until morning to see what would become of himself, and whether he would bear any public responsibility for his achievements.
A few hours later, after a period of fitful and dissatisfying sleep, Alexander roused himself, carefully donned his vermilion robes, and fastened the copper disc at his shoulder. He hurried out from the peer residences toward the Senate grounds on foot. He did not have the money for a chaise, but he didn’t regret this. He was full of anticipation and anxieties. His heart fluttered in his chest.
Three wretched souls stood atop the scaffold, and in each three lived the mark of wickedness. In the first, a woman, her burned and blackened skin. She was so weak, the guards had lashed her to the post. In the second, the near-black bloodstained shirt and trousers, and the pale and phlegmatic tone of skin. In the third, whose body was whole and uninjured, the frantic, leaping anxieties which skittered from his person.
Disgusting.
Despite their brokenness, he felt no sympathy. The gods struck down evil with a mighty hand, and the evidence of his retribution rested plainly upon them. Whatever concerns Alexander had carried about his decision to recommend the lottery fell away from his mind. They were lower than beasts, and chose to bring this upon themselves.
The gathering crowd was enormous, Alexander guessed at more than ten thousand. They milled about in their common clothes, though the brilliance of vermillion robes could be spotted throughout. Most however were concentrated at the front, only a few feet from Alexander’s vantage point, and to the sides, where they sternly awaited the beginning of the punishment. Alexander did not know how anyone would be able to hear the Lord Cryer over the din of the crowd, nor did he believe they could be quieted or captured enough to listen at all, let alone enlist. Nevertheless, when Ampellus stepped up upon the scaffold, a hush fell over the crowd.
Before the Lord Cryer began his remarks, Alexander spied four tables sitting at either end of the scaffold. They bore a single word, “Enlist!” It was not the most imaginative appeal for volunteers, but it was comforting to see they had used one of his ideas after all.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ampellus began, booming in a voice Alexander had not heard the night before. The latter understood at this moment why the man was Lord Cryer. “We are here, solemnly gathered, to bear witness to the due punishment of three perfidious criminals...”
He went on and on, pouring out the usual comments made by such officials. He remarked upon the heinous nature of their crimes, he spoke of the need to preserve their ideals and traditions — at which time Alexander thought he saw Ampellus’ eyes linger on him —, and of the necessity for decent men to do what was right in times of crisis. The effects were ordinary, and the crowd seemed more eager to see what they believed would be a hanging than listen to some enrobed superior.
Then, Ampellus launched into a diatribe which struck Alexander fiercely. The Lord Cryer, despite all of his prior protestations, began to outline the exact reasoning Alexander had given for why a departure from the usual method of execution, hanging, was acceptable. The only significant change Alexander noticed was that he’d altered the metaphors.
“What quarter do we owe the insect?” Ampellus roared the final question with an intensity that stirred Alexander’s heart and raised the hair on his arm.
“None!” came the thundering reply, though some commoner next to Alexander shouted “Give it all!” and was subsequently confused by the different shouts coming from those around him.
“We owe them nothing!” Ampellus shouted. “Nothing! But we will send them a message! One not by ship or by hawk, but by sound. May the cries of the wicked damned carry across the Badam Sea. May every peevish and cowardly heart be shot through with the sound of their suffering. And may all of Calathea hear the roar of the Lion as he approaches, and TREEEMBLE!”
The crowd erupted into ecstasy, screaming their rage, their indignance. Alexander himself joined in a chorus of these cheers, swept away by the intensity of the moment. But, instead of the anticipated announcement of a lottery to kill the assassins — which Alexander seriously considered enlisting just to have the opportunity to participate in — Ampellus stepped aside, clearing the way for a hooded figure to walk up onto the scaffold. He was a hulking man, with arms that looked as thick as columns. Two guards followed him onto the platform, carrying between them a squat brazier filled with gleaming coals.
The executioner reached into the coals and withdrew metal pincers, yellow with heat. He then walked from the brazier toward where the nervous man stood, bringing the pincers close to his face. The man scrunched his face as he tried to avoid the heat emanating from it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen,” another man began to speak. It was Phlaxus, who had ascended the scaffold after the two guards. “One of these Calathean dogs wishes to repent of his sins, to wash himself of the evil which he perpetrated, and be absolved in the eyes of the gods.” The crowd, hungry for justice and curious about the inclusion of hot pincers, did not hear any of it, but shouted all the more for bloody vengeance.
“Cut him free!” Phlaxus ordered. He did not possess the same gift for oration as Ampellus, but where the former appeared ultimately authoritative, the latter possessed an impish quality which aroused Alexander’s curiosity.
The shaking man was cut free from his post, where he fell immediately to his hands and knees. There was a chorus of hisses and boos, accompanied by a shower of detritus splattering about the prostrate man.
“All he must do,” Phlaxus shouted “is repent.” Then, the executioner handed the pincers to the man on the ground as the two guards raised him to his feet. The man’s anxiety appeared to double, as he did not know what to do with them. But horror erupted from his very being as Phlaxus leaned in and whispered something into his ear. The crowd grew silent as they watched the man walk toward his bloody accomplice whose head lolled against his post.
It was a palpable horror, an infectious horror. It caught Alexander in his belly and rose up through his extremities. It fell out of his mouth in a gasp and weakened his knees. As the man reached his accomplice, he raised the pincers.
There was a terse exchange between the two, though Alexander couldn’t make out their words from his position. The nervous man lowered his head in defeat, turning once to look at Phlaxus, as if he hoped it was all some sort of cruel jape, and he would be spared this task. Phlaxus urged him on with a smiling nod.
After a moment’s hesitation, the man plunged the hot pincers into the breast of his accomplice, who did not scream or shout, but loosed a moan so deep and pained it sounded as though one had cut the world itself and heard her terrible cry. The man twisted the pincers, which sizzled and spit as they cooled against the man’s flesh and blood. Thrice he rotated the pincers, with each twist evoking a fresh sob.
Then, the man wrenched the pincers from his accomplices body, evoking a sound so horrible it could not be described in any words. He turned, smoking gob of flesh between the pincers, to face the crowd.
“I...” the nervous man began, nearly too quiet to hear.
“Louder!” Phlaxus barked.
“I...” the nervous man started again between heaving sobs.
“Louder! So that the gods may hear you!”
“I AM A RAT!” the nervous man cried. “I’M RAT. I’M A RAT. I’M A RAT!”
The crowd did not move at this. It was paralyzed in a stupefied awe, pregnant with unpleasant expectation. It was as though each of those ten thousand people held their breath at once.
“Do it,” Phlaxus hissed.
At this, the man stifled another sob, then moved the pincers toward his mouth. Slowly, with great pain, he placed the flesh of his accomplice in his mouth and began to chew. Snot poured from his nose as he turned to face his other comrade.
“No,” Alexander whispered to himself again.
The man chewed, and chewed, then, with great effort, swallowed the flesh of his comrade.
“Well done!” Phlaxus roared, clapping the nervous man on the back. The latter was wholly broken, a mere shell of a man. Whatever soul he had once possessed had long since departed his body. What remained was only animal — terrified, captured animal.
“Has he earned our forgiveness?” Phlaxus asked the crowd. There were only a smattering of answers. The rest of the crowd, including Alexander, was still in a state of shock.
“No? Well then, kill him.”
The guards moved in at once, undeterred by the cries of the nervous man.
“No! NO! NO! YOU SWORE! PLEASE!” he cried.
His cries did not stop until they pulled his entrails from his belly, ripping them apart. Then he only seemed confused. The bloody man died in the interim, succumbing to the wounds from his capture and the pincers.
The woman did not cry as they killed her.