If you haven’t read the prior parts, start here. | The previous part can be found here.
Bumbumbum!
Alexander awoke with a start. Sweat slicked his black hair, his chest heaved. For a moment, as he passed between sleep and wakefulness, he could not make sense of his surroundings.
Bumbumbum!
Someone was ferociously banging on his door. Drowsy and still dripping with dream, he stood up and made his way toward it.
“Who is it?” he hissed. Not wanting to wake the neighbors sleeping in the suites on either side of his own.
“Alexander, son of Alletheos?” the knocker asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“You are here summoned by the Lord Cryer of the Maejorii, to appear at once,” the knocker replied.
Alexander’s eyes widened. The Lord Cryer of the Maejorii was the designated orator for justice in the city. What could he possibly want with someone like Alexander, and at this hour?
“At once?” Alexander asked back, hoping he had misheard.
There was no reply. Alexander hastily unbolted the door and peered outside, catching a glimpse of the knocker as strode away down the hallway.
“Wait!” Alexander urged. “Wait, let me wash and dress then I will come at once,” he urged the knocker. The latter appeared to stifle a roll of the eyes, but then rose up to the balls of his feet and brought his heels down with a click.
“Thank you, thank you,” Alexander sighed, rushing back into his room. His eyes now adjusted to lamplight, he wasted no time getting ready. He splashed water from the washbasin on his face and neck, dried himself with a kerchief, and quickly stripped from his night clothes into something more suitable for the presence of Maejorii.
The knocker cleared his throat outside, loud enough for Alexander’s neighbors to hear. Not wishing his night knocker to become the subject of morning intrigues, Alexander hurried out the door.
“Where are we going?” Alexander asked suddenly as they exited the peer residences and turned left instead of right toward the House of the Maejorii. The knocker did not answer. In fact, he didn’t even seem to register the question at all. His silence was not a refusal to reply, it was a refusal to acknowledge. Alexander set his jaw.
“Where are we going?” Alexander pressed, knowing the knocker had no obligation to disclose that information, but hoping he could sound menacing enough to extract some information from the man.
Just then, Alexander realized he had forgotten his rapier in his suite. This sudden realization, in combination with the knocker’s continued muteness and the general mystery of their destination, set suspicions loose upon Alexander. The knocker could be leading him to a secret location to dispatch of him quietly in the night — at the behest of some faceless enemy.
“The Lord Cryer awaits you in his offices,” the knocker stated flatly, clicking his heels once more. Alexander came back to himself, and found he was at the entrance to a large house. It was apart from the aggregate apartments of the peers, but retained the same tasteful simplicity. While nowhere near as luxurious as the villas of Melios, he could not help but feel the presence of the powerful families here. It was something in the bricks of the building itself, something in the old columns and the practicality of the resplendent planter’s boxes which hung beneath every window. Whoever lived there did not wish to smell the open streets of Od whenever they opened a window.
What the fuck did they want with him? He couldn’t begin to fathom. Yesterday he had been working in the offices of the Maejorii, writing up writs of summons for a property dispute in Eastwood. It was uneventful, mindless work. There was no possibility he had made a mistake of such magnitude it would require a summons from the Lord Cryer himself. Alexander considered for a moment whether it was possible he was being summoned for praise, but no clerk was summoned for praise in the dead of night.
Perhaps it had something to do with his father.
As he approached the double-doors of the front entrance, they cracked open, revealing the pinched face of a doorman behind. He was old and squinting. Alexander stepped forward into the light of the sconces above the doors. After a moment’s consideration — during which the doorman appeared to note his black hair, face, and, much to Alexander’s dismay, his state of dress — Alexander was permitted to enter the home. The doorman stood awkwardly for a moment, not knowing how to properly admit a guest who did not wear a cloak to be removed, before shuffling off.
“Is this him?” a fat man smoking a cigarette asked with impatience from the sitting room just beyond the foyer.
“I don’t know. It looks like it,” a skinny man, clad in the dark blue robes of the Maejorii, answered as he stopped pacing the room.
“You, boy, Alexander of Alletheos?” the skinny one snapped. Alexander was caught off guard. His musings led him to forget the unknown purpose of this visit, and the present intensity did nothing to quell his resumed anxieties.
“Yes, my lord,” Alexander answered, before adding a hasty “to whom do I have the pleasure of being introduced?”
The fat man smiled with the cigarette in his mouth, though Alexander did not understand what was amusing. The blue-robed man ignored his question.
“Where is your pen and paper?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?” Alexander replied, taken off guard once again.
“Your pen and paper. You were summoned here to write — how did you plan to accomplish this without pen and paper?”
Alexander knew the knocker had not relayed this piece of information to him, but he was not too upset at his unpreparedness; he was much too busy being relieved he was not going to be secretly dispatched in the night.
“No matter, we’ll provide it,” the fat man said, breaking the silence. He whistled, rolled the cigarette between his lips, and closed one eye as a tendril of smoke threatened to graze it. Not a moment later, a servant appeared with two leather-bound books and two pens with wells.
Not wanting to betray his ongoing confusion with the situation, Alexander assumed his best air of impassivity and seated himself at a nearby writing table. He withdrew the pen from the well, wiped the nib clean with a kerchief from his tunic, and redipped the pen.
“I still don’t understand why he’s needed,” the skinny man complained, having resumed his pacing through the sitting room again.
“You know well,” the fat man replied, handing the butt of his cigarette to the servant, who whisked it out of sight at once. He lit another one, rolling it between his lips as he did the other. It smelled like tree bark and earth.
“His Lordship doesn’t want a speech at all, I’m convinced,” the skinny man said with a huff. The fat man took a drag before looking back up at him.
“You know well he wants a speech,” the fat man sighed.
“All night we’ve worked, seven drafts, and nothing to show for it.”
“He’s particular.”
“Govral fonadrassen, ge sanfe etal peurtevel Uterides’ah,” the skinny man replied, pointing in Alexander’s general direction.
The young man didn’t know what to make of any of this, especially the switch to Teura. He sat there, pen at the ready, unsure if this was supposed to be the subject of his writing or not. He doubted they would summon him — someone they did not know — in the middle of the night to take notes for their rendezvous. It did seem, as their conversation continued, that they were reticent to use him in whatever capacity he’d been summoned. It appeared as well he was brought in by a party whose influence extended to the highest levels of the Maejorii. The realization quickened his heart.
“You said yourself not a quarter hour ago ‘We could use some fresh eyes.’ Did you not?” the fat man asked.
Alexander didn’t recognize the name, though, Uterides. Perhaps he was one of the more senior Aeolites.
“Our own fresh eyes, after time away from this,” the skinny man shot back.
Though why would this Uterides ensure he, Alexander, was summoned from his suite in the middle of the night to take part in this mysterious writing exercise?
“Might I be of better service if I understood the details of the project?” Alexander interjected. The fat man started, having forgotten entirely of Alexander’s presence. The skinny man held back a look of contempt, but it still spilled through the eyes.
“We’re waiting,” the fat man replied, taking another deliberate draw as he crossed his legs. The skinny man gave the other a look, which was neither friendly nor hostile, but full of meaning Alexander did not understand.
As the trio waited, Alexander took stock of the sitting room in which he found himself. Aside from the desk at which he was seated, there were a dozen or so ornate and plush pieces of furniture. They were in the fashion of the times, though a few betrayed spots of wear from constant use. The drapes were opened, though in the darkness nothing could be seen through the windows except for the silhouettes of nearby buildings. Imperious portraits stared down at from their niches, ghosts of statesman and dignitaries long dead. Alexander felt a certain heaviness in the room, one which he could not identify or explain.
“This is ridiculous, we’re going with my dra—” the skinny man began before being interrupted by the front door opening. A small man with a head much too large for his body entered. He possessed an air of authority, which was reinforced by the obvious deference of Alexander’s two hosts — both of whom arose at his entrance and greeted him with deep bows.
“Have you considered the notes?” the small man asked the skinny one. The latter wrung his hands, noticed, and then stopped before replying.
“Yes — and while I think his Lordship makes some excellent points.”
The small man cut him off with a raised hand. His eyes were fixed on Alexander, who neither stood nor bowed at the man’s entrance — an awful slight.
“Who is this?” the small man asked of the other two. Before the fat man could reply, Alexander realized his breach of decorum, stood, and bowed low before the man.
“Alexander, son of Alletheos, my Lord,” Alexander replied, much to the dismay of his two hosts.
“Well and good, Alexander son of — ” the small man paused for a moment, realization blossoming. He turned to the fat man.
“Alexander?” the former asked. The Fat Man nodded. The small man smiled at the other two before turning his attention to Alexander.
“Delighted. I am General Rigodeon, of the twelfth legion,” the General replied, returning a slight bow of the head.
“Have you informed him of the task ahead?” the General followed up.
“Lord General, I haven’t so much as had the pleasure of being introduced,” Alexander continued. The boy was wise enough to understand the slight directed toward him by the other two who had not only denied him a proper introduction, but also pleasant conversation until their expected fourth had arrived. He gambled that the General would find this in poor taste, whatever the circumstances of his inclusion in the project. Besides, Alexander wanted to know whose company he was enjoying.
“For shame, the both of you. I suppose you didn’t offer the boy refreshments either?” the General asked. Seeing Alexander’s empty hand, the General summoned a servant and requested spirits for the whole company. The skinny man tried to protest, but the General wouldn’t hear of it.
“This is His Excellence the Lord Cryer, Ampellus, son of Amphellon,” the General explained, gesturing with his glass toward the skinny man,“and this is His Excellence the Ataerii Orator, Phlaxus son of Taradus.” Alexander allowed a bow of the head as each was introduced. This was not proper, he knew — both men were established and powerful members of the government, each occupying a special position only held by one — yet he couldn’t help but return some of the same impropriety which they had extended toward him. Surprisingly, neither seemed much affronted.
“Shall we begin?” Phlaxus asked, passing off another cigarette butt to a servant who quickly whisked it away again.
“Of course,” the General replied, before turning to Alexander. “I’m sure you heard that just some hours ago, four assassins broke into the home of Ominides with a desire to kill him and raze the estate.”
Alexander had not heard this, nor would there be any reason for him to. He was a clerk in the Maejorii, working with records and investigations, no one would come knock on his door to tell him of some perfidy against Ominides. Despite this Alexander nodded, after which thought he saw a smirk pass briefly over the General’s face.
“We have them in custody. Well… three of the four. One was badly burned, but captured alive. One was killed before he could be captured, they say he was just a boy.”
“Sickening,” Ampellus said, mocking spitting on the floor.
“Indeed. But the important part is that certain revelations occurred in our subsequent conversations with the assassins. Through certain methods, horrible and necessary, we have come to know that which he had previously suspected: they were sent by the Calatheans.”
Alexander understood the General’s meaning of methods horrible and necessary, they’d been tortured. The thought of it put a chill through his spine, but it cooled at the thought of foreign intruders wreaking havoc and murder upon their lands.
“Od, the whole city, must make a declaration. Our priorities in doing so should be twofold. First, we must make it known that any harm visited upon our precious Od will be returned on the attacker a hundredfold,” the General continued, visibly angered by the thought of their trespasses.
“Secondly, we use this declaration to stir the hearts of the people. We must make them understand our plight against those wicked Calathean pigs, and inspire them to take up arms against them.”
“As we’ve said, I don’t believe the two can be accomplished in a single message. How can we rant and rave about the horrors of the barbarians across the sea, coming here to the heart of our lands, striking within the home of the most powerful Aeolite, only to continue with ‘You must defeat them.’ It projects a weakness, a desperation,” Ampellus interjected. Sitting forward on his sofa rubbing his face with his palms.
“It’s not impossible, it’s just a matter of execution,” Phlaxus replied, lighting another cigarette.
“No, no. The spirit of it is wrong. We cannot project power and shake the will of our enemies in a declaration which simultaneously begs the masses to take up arms and fight,” Ampellus countered.
“Do you imagine for a second the Calathean’s aren’t doing the same? We have a perfect opportunity, a botched plot to assassinate one of us, an Aeolite, by those dogs, and you want to what? Restrict our message to ‘You had better beware’?” Phlaxus shot back.
“Remember, these assassins were not entirely unsuccessful,” the General cautioned. “Ominides lost Oloridon, his uncle.”
“Applastal lixide ouet’ne etal’i, frasirae aian’ah,” Ampellus recited, touching a finger to his chin.
“Frasirae aian’ah,” the General and Phlaxus echoed.
“I simply cannot think of an instance in which the oration following a major incident, of this magnitude, included a portion included to enhance recruitment, explicitly. The masses will hear our message and want — of their own accord — to fight in defense of our land. Besides, currently there is no mention of the execution, an essential aspect of our function, the Maejorii, upholders of justice,” Ampellus continued slowly.
“My dear Ampellus, while I understand you are second to none in skills of oration and rhetoric — except, perhaps our Phlaxus — I must impress upon you the exigencies with which we find ourselves. Our initial advance into Calathea was a success, with coastal villages offering little resistance. However, our cartography of the region was flawed, and — for reasons I cannot discuss — our advance toward their capital has stalled. We, as all armies must, have suffered casualties. We must replenish our forces. Conscription, unfortunately, produces ineffective and unreliable warriors. The Senate is hesitant to require its use again. They do not understand our invasion. This is the central problem against which you must apply your faculties. We need to alter the very minds of the people. We need them to understand what we’re fighting for. We need them to want to fight,” the General stated, shaking both fists in the air.
After he had finished his little monologue, the room fell into an uneasy silence. Phlaxus finished his cigarette, and — before he could beckon a servant to dispose of it — one appeared and carried it off. Ampellus stroked his absent beard, affecting as though he were lost in thought, though it was clear to Alexander that the man was keenly aware of each of the party’s perspectives. The only thought in which he could be lost was contemplation of how best to secure his own ends. The General downed his drink, silently calling another servant to replenish his glass.
Who is this Uterides? Alexander wondered to himself.
“If I may,” Alexander began, speaking up for the first time. “It is possible we are going about this all wrong.” The General, Ampellus, and Phlaxus all look at him with, each face bearing a different subtlety of reaction Alexander couldn’t take in all at once.
“The Lord General desires to inspire more men to fight for our cause, and the Lord Cryer believes that any attempt to do so should weaken — or rather, appear to expose a weakness — to our enemies,” Alexander continued, feeling no encouragement among the group.
“I believe that the Lord Cryer — ” Alexander followed, before being cut off by the General.
“‘Ampellus’, please, or we’ll be here all night,” he chided. Alexander looked at Ampellus, who, despite peering at the General with venomous eyes, allowed a curt nod.
“I believe that Ampellus is arguing that the presence of the Calathean spies within our city — which there no doubt are — would send any information of import from any declaration back to their leaders.”
Ampellus nodded impatiently, and the General chimed in.
“Yes, we understand.”
“Well then I propose that we combine the two efforts into one completely. That is to say, we established outdoor volunteer desks outside, encircling the scaffolds, then we create a spectacle so rousing and complete that no good man, no gods-fearing man, could help but set himself toward our cause,” Alexander continued.
“That’s precisely what the General is trying to do,” Ampellus shot back without hesitation. “More volunteers for the war. Va gdael voiral etal’ah.”
Alexander bristled at this. He did not understand Teura, despite being of the Aeolite himself. Ampellus’ frequent tongue-switching was intended to lock him out of the conversation.
“Let him finish,” Phlaxus interjected, motioning Alexander to continue.
“I suppose firstly my idea is to remove the length of time any onlooker has to let their passions subside before giving them the opportunity to enlist. The second, which may be controversial, is that we may have been paying too much attention to the speech itself. Has the manner of execution been decided?” Alexander asked Ampellus. The latter nodded.
“Hanging.”
“See, that won’t do — ”
“It’s the civilized way to execute. We’re not beasts like them,” the General interjected, not liking the way the conversation was headed. Alexander paused for a moment, considering the General’s words carefully before choosing his own.
“And if these Calatheans were Odians, if they fought with bravery or had any honor, doing so would be appropriate,” Alexander replied. “But are we not in agreement that these Calatheans are lower than dogs?”
“Lower than rats,” Phlaxus spat.
“Lower than rats,” Alexander echoed. “So I ask you, Lords: what degree of civility and respect must be demonstrated toward someone lower than the rat?”
There was a moment as the General came to understand, eyes widening. Phlaxus sat back in his seat, narrowing his eyes at Alexander. The latter could not tell through the fat man’s inscrutable countenance whether this look was positive or not, but he suspected there was a seed of respect planting itself in his mind.
“I see, I see. Hmm… So, rats indeed. We are not bound by any code of civility, our honor need not extend to the dishonorable and so on,” the General mused aloud, pieces of the argument aligning in his head. Ampellus balked.
“You’re finding this persuasive? It is precisely the mark of a man’s honor and civility how he treats the cow, or the horse. We do not abuse them with abandon, because it is base,” Ampellus countered.
“But, my Lord, I believe this is where the analogy with animals breaks down. A cow or a horse does not have the capacity for requisite civility. A horse will kick if you approach from behind, regardless of who you are. But the Calatheans, they are men like us. They choose to be like the beast. They decided to be lower than the rat. They decided the moment they set fire to Ominides’ villa and stabbed his uncle as he slept. What’s more, they would visit this moral corruption onto our lands. This we cannot abide,” Alexander finished, his breathing heavy with excitement.
There was another moment of silence.
Then Phlaxus began to applaud.
“Well done! Well done! Well said, indeed,” he boomed. There was no hint of insincerity in his face. Ampellus did not look pleased, but he could not formulate any rebuttal in the moment, so affixed a false smile and softly echoed Phlaxus’ praise.
“Well said, indeed. The boy should have written the damn speech. If I weren’t a general, I’d already be enlisting,” the General added.
“Aian’i culissewyl’o ytre danal Uterides’ah,” Phlaxus said to Ampellus, who exhaled a private fury.
The General stood from his seat, drained his drink in one swallow, set it on the platter of a ready servant, and began to pace the room. Phlaxus eyed him as he walked. Ampellus appeared deep in thought, as if resolving some great problem of mathematics on a whim.
“Everything is on the table, then. Everything is permissible. So, what would you recommend we do with them?” the General asked aloud, presumably to Alexander, who chewed the question thoughtfully.
“It would take some consideration,” he replied, unable to think of something clever in the moment.
“We have four hours before the execution, and two before the proclamation is due,” Ampellus chided, “we have no time for consideration.”
“Ampellus is right,” Phlaxus added. “If any special materials are required for the execution, we must provide those details to the staff immediately.”
“Alright, yes. Since this is urgent...” Alexander began.
“Out with it, boy,” the General said, continuing his pacing about the room.
“We put the Calathean beasts on display upon the scaffolds. We talk about their infiltration, but only to establish the nearness of the conflict, not the degree to which we are compromised. This will allow the common folk to understand that our war is not some other war, far away. Its effects are present, and its outcome final. Then, we discuss the heinous nature of the assassins’ crimes. We spare no detail, even the death of Oloridon. If they can make it to our most hallowed City, deep into the resplendent garden of Melios, its heart, and strike at the most powerful men, then they will definitely slay the rest.”
Alexander paused for a moment, looking around to see if the trio followed him. The General was still pacing, though he was silent. Alexander took this as listening. Phlaxus was leaned forward on his seat again, curious eyes watching him. Ampellus was resting his face within his hands, but Alexander suspected he was searching for anything objectionable in his idea.
“Then, we hit them hard with the reasons to enlist. First, for duty to the City. Every man who calls himself such has a duty to defend his homeland and strike at the heart of the enemy. Second, for love of the City. We must preserve our ancient way of life, our traditions, our language. We cannot let the barbarian hordes storm across all that we cherish and revere. Third, for duty to self. That each man who calls himself such has a duty to preserve his own life and the life of his family. Even if he cares little for the City or the land, he must fight against those who wish to cut them down.”
“This all seems rather regular,” Ampellus sighed, looking up at Alexander. The latter pressed on, undeterred.
“Then, at the zenith of the speech, the rhetorical crescendo which has whipped our people into anger, we ask who among them would give the assassins mercy.”
“What? Mercy?” the General asked, aghast.
“Yes, mercy,” Alexander replied with a smile, “to which no man will dare agree. Then we ask which brave sons of Od possess the courage and strength to demonstrate before all others their commitment to fight the wretched Calathean dogs. Naturally, all will agree. Then — and this part is most important — we say that three men who enlist at that moment and volunteer themselves for the war will be given the chance to execute the assassins with their own hand. When the people enlist, we draw three marks from a pot. They will be given a sword with which to kill them. These three swords will be treasured, sanctified among them. They will be passed down through the generations, and be the envy of all who were not chosen,” Alexander concluded.
“That is your idea? A lottery?” Ampellus scoffed.
“I like the idea,” Phlaxus replied coolly. “We could not think like our Alexander here, and put ourselves in the minds of the common folk. We could never have suspected they would appreciate a chance to make a name for themselves by executing the assassins themselves.”
Alexander sensed a barb in the midst of Phlaxus agreement, but was so overcome with pride that he was able to come up with something which might actually work that he didn’t give it too much thought. The General, unusually quiet, looked up at the ceiling for a moment before speaking his piece.
“I agree with Phlaxus,” he began, “but I have a few concerns. Namely, while I believe that — ”
“It’s a terrible idea,” Ampellus cried out, unable to contain his disdain any longer. He immediately came to regret his outburst, as he had not heard the General begin to speak. A stern look from the latter made him quiet once more.
“Hmm,” the General hummed, “we will need to discuss this further with other parties. Alexander, leave us for now. We appreciate your contribution to our dilemma.”