It occurred to me that this Storyblogging Carnival is our third anniversary. It's been a long time since I've submitted a story to the Carnival, but I figured for the anniversary edition I ought to include something (especially as we only got one story in our first round of submissions). What I've been working on recently is
Water, the "sequel" to
Fire. It's not really a sequel, though, only the second part of the book of which
Fire is part one. I don't intend to publish
Water online, so that leaves me in a bit of a quandary, since I don't have any other stories to share. After some thought, I decided that I could publish a small excerpt from
Water. I considered putting up something from the first chapter, but the first chapter's pretty boring. I intend to get rid of it and write something better in its place. So instead I'll give you an excerpt from a chapter near the end, a bit of which I
posted before. This particular scene pretty much stands alone, but it works better if you know something about Aulus. He's the clever and paranoid older brother of Victor and Lucia. If you want more than that, I'm afraid you'll have to read
Fire, which is freely available on my
Writings page. This chapter is the first time I reveal what he's up to, or tell any part of the story from his perspective. It was a bit of a challenge, making his character distinct from all my other characters. From the outside, it's easy--he's the paranoid one. But making him an interesting character, showing how the world makes sense from his perspective, and making him seem at least half-way likable without changing his personality: that was a challenge. Anyway, here it is. First, though, a quick warning. The subject matter deserves an R rating.
Chapter 17
Artura
Aulus adjusted the rough leather cap on his head. Its somewhat conical shape was rounded off well before it peaked, and proclaimed to the world that he was a freedman. It lied, of course, but while Aulus always sought the truth, he felt no compunction to share it. Right now, he was more concerned with the physical discomfort it caused him than any message it might be sending to the rest of the world. It was hot here, and his sweat damp hair itched even worse than the rest of his body, chafed as it was by the rough wool tunic he wore.
Face it, Aulus, you’re just too used to living in comfort, he thought. His stomach growled, reminding him of how little comfort his current job provided. Fortunately, it was evening, and the oppressive heat was slowly fading as Aulus headed home for the night. Occasionally a cool, salt-scented breeze from the north would caress the back of his neck and nearly take the cap off his head.
He scratched at his head underneath the cap, careful not to dislodge it. A freedman not wearing his cap could be arrested for passing himself off as a citizen. Some of the Urban Legionaries were petty enough that they would make the arrest even on the poor freedman who merely dropped his cap, and some citizens were simply looking for an excuse to beat a frail-looking freedman. Aulus detested bullies of both types, and while he usually managed to avoid their notice, there was no point in taking risks.
The long shadows cast by the disappearing sun cast their darkness on his as he navigated the raised stepping stones that gave pedestrians some hope of staying out of the muck covering the paved streets. Buildings loomed several stories high on either side of him, and it was already late enough to leave some of the particularly narrow stretches, where the overhanging buildings nearly hid the sun at high noon, in deep shadow. Aulus wished that Artura had the same system of street lamps as Novaro, but only a few private homes had lamps, and those were only lit in anticipation of the return of the patricrian master and mistress of the house. No one wanted to waste lamplight on those wretched strangers still out as evening set in.
Aulus had to move quickly to the side as one of those wealthy patricians came by. Slaves carrying torches took the lead, followed by a tight knot of burly slaves with clubs around a litter, heavy velvet curtains blocking out the sights and sounds of the street.
Not the smells, I bet, Aulus thought. Just then the overpowering perfume which served that purpose swept over him, its sick sweetness causing him to break out in a loud coughing fit. One of the thugs who guarded the litter glared at him, taking a step in his direction. Fortunately, the litter was moving too fas to give him a chance to indulge in a little violence, and he had to hurry after it as the rear torchbearers caught up to him. Aulus barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the screaming.
Loud shouting was not uncommon in Artura. Usually they were cries of anger or passion which could be safely ignored. This was more; Aulus could tell by the continuous nature of the cries. From the sound of it, it had been going on for several moments already, when it had been drowned out by the tramping feet of the entourage. The cries were also unmistakably feminine.
Aulus continued walking forward, which unfortunately was in the direction of the screaming woman. He wasn’t here to play hero. He had a job to do, a job which was much more important than some woman being mugged or raped or murdered. If he were in a litter surrounded by armed guards, he’d have them help out, of course.
Assuming I even heard it through the curtain. His pace had picked up, and he was heading for the commotion faster than he should.
It’s so much easier when you don’t know about these things, he thought.
When you can just shrug your shoulders and say, "Well, these things happen in a large city, there’s nothing you can do." He was jogging now, his breath coming faster but hardly winded.
If I had come this way ten minutes earlier or later, or if I had come another way. I could go another way now, but I am not going to be frightened off by this. Now his breath was coming in quick bursts, and his steps were flying over the ground. The straps of his sandals bit painfully as his feet scraped and snagged on the raised stepping stones, on loose paving stones, on softer objects he’d rather not think about and wished he didn’t smell. He nearly sprinted past the alley where all the screaming was occurring before he realized he had arrived. His chest heaved, his breath whistling in his chest. His eyes were blurred and in the darkness it was impossible to tell what he was seeing at first.
A large man, dressed in the leather cuirass and kilt of one of the Urban Legionaries, leaned over a woman. The woman wore a tunic that bore no resemblance to a proper dress, well short of her knees and slit open on one side. It was torn open at the breast, although Aulus could tell that had taken very little effort given the depth of the neckline. Her face was painted to a white too pale to approximate skin tone, with lips too red and eyes too dark with makeup. Her hair hung loose, falling well down her back. She was clearly a prostitute, and not an expensive one; she was probably a freedwoman, although they didn’t wear caps to mark themselves as the men did. The soldier was too large for his armor, the straps straining at the bulk, rolls of fat spilling between them. His puffy face leered, eyes fastened on the woman’s bare breast. One of his hands clutched a handful of her hair. Her hands were wrapped around his other arm, whose hand held tightly to her bare breast. It squeezed and she screamed, in pain and outrage and... shame? It couldn’t be: she was a prostitute.
This is none of my business. She was a prostitute. Why was it any of Aulus’s concern if a customer didn’t want to pay, if he was a little rough? The legionary squeezed again and she screamed again; Aulus winced.
This wouldn’t be my business if she were a patrician matron about to be raped by her slave. Neither of them had seen him yet, and he didn’t think they would see him unless he wanted them to.
For all they know, I’m not even here. She screamed again, countertimed to his squeezing, and the brute laughed, giggled really, uncharacteristically high-pitched for his girth.
All I want to do is go home and have dinner. I wish I wasn’t here.
He heard the tramping of feet as another entourage neared the alley, and Aulus turned to look. Torchlight licked down the alley, and the torchbearers came into sight. They were craning their necks, looking for the source of the noise they had heard. Aulus heard a sob behind him. The litter hove into view with its guards. They too watched, some troubled, some leering, some indifferent to anything that wasn’t a direct threat to their charge. It was hard to tell the color of the litter in the torchlight, just that it was a dark color, maybe a deep blue or green. “Help me!” he heard. A hand emerged from the litter, and Aulus let himself feel relief for the first time. Someone else would deal with this. Someone else would help this woman and relieve him of the responsibility. The long, soft hand, its bejeweled fingers scattering the inconstant torchlight, waved preemptorily to the litterbearers, and Aulus knew what would happen even before he heard the sharp, frightened word emerge from behind the curtains, “Hurry!” The litterbearers picked up the pace, and the guards, some disappointed and some relieved, moved with it. Aulus turned back to the tableau before him, which stood unchanged.
Torchlight flickered down the alley again, touching rapist and victim, who watched the procession pass. The man seemed to hold his breath, while the woman sobbed almost quietly now. Still, she watched them pass through her tears, and the soldier watched with her. Aulus stood backlit by the procession; he should be clearly visible to them, he was clearly visible, only they still didn’t know he was there. They wouldn’t notice him until he wanted them to. He still had only the vaguest idea how he could so easily slip beneath people’s notice, and it didn’t always work, but when it did, it was like magic. The rear torchbearers were passing now, and for the first time the light shined clearly down the alley, and he could make out the details concealed in shadows. The man’s eyes were clouded, his face slack, his nose and cheeks florid. Clearly he had had plenty to drink, today and a thousand days previous. Tears ran down the woman’s face, tracking through black, white, and red makeup to leave an unholy mess. But underneath the skin was pale and freckled, not the olive of the southerners. The eyes, shining and wet, reflected the torches with their own green fire, and the hair shone with a deep, rich red.
Jaelin? It couldn’t be Jaelin. Jaelin was safely with Grandfather, hundreds of miles south of here.
And she still thinks she’s Lucia, at least according to the latest letter. He was moving forward, alone, unarmed, and still unseen.
She wouldn’t be here, not dressed like that, not working as a prostitute. Aulus looked around for a weapon: a rock, a large stick, anything that would narrow the soldier’s advantage. His eyes fell to the sword hanging from his enemy’s belt.
Damn, I’m thinking of him as my enemy now. I do not
want to get involved in this. He stood beside the man, who, figuring himself free from any interruptions, leaned in toward his victim for an obscene kiss. Aulus reached for the sword, wrapped his hand about it--
Please don’t notice me now!--and pulled.
The hand which had been groping the woman’s breast whipped back to seize hold of the sword’s hilt, but since Aulus had already pulled it halfway out of its scabbard, the hand grasped hold of the blade instead. The soldier was looking at Aulus now, seeing him for the first time, his expression equal parts shock and fear, which turned to simple pain as Aulus yanked the sword the rest of the way from its scabbard, slicing the soldier’s hand open in the process. The man was the one who screamed this time, but the woman cried out too as he turned to face Aulus, his left hand, still caught in her hair, jerking her along with him. Aulus had never been a swordsman to match Marcus, or even Gaius, but his older brothers had forced him to participate in enough sparring lessons that he knew how to use a sword. He held the short blade left-handed now, pressing its point against the Urban Legionary’s throat. It was something of a reach, since the man was head and shoulders taller than Aulus, but Aulus could still push the point home. He didn’t dare spare a glance for the woman to see how she was taking this, although it seemed to him that she held very still.
The would-be rapist blinked at him. “Where di’ ya...?” He swayed and blinked a few more times, and Aulus could see the beginnings of anger pushing aside the fear. “A free’man? Whacha thin’ yer doin’ assaultin’ one of the Ur’an Co-cohor’?”
Aulus could smell the alcohol on his breath, so strong that he wasn’t certain what drink had contained it. Probably the sour wine the soldiers drank. This one hadn’t watered his down properly. “I’m stopping a rape.”
“Yer assaultin’ me,” he said. “Dis is assaul’. You coul’ be cru-cruci...fied for dis.”
Idiot. I could have you
crucified. That wasn’t strictly true. Citizens, of which august assembly this soldier was indubitably an unworthy member, could not be crucified. Aulus could probably have him executed, but not by crucifixion. Unfortunately, doing so would cost him the disguise he had worked so hard to set up, so it was probably not the wisest idea.
“Are you saying that the smart thing for me would be to kill you now?” Aulus asked. “Because I could do that.”
Could I? he asked himself.
Maybe, he thought, glancing at the woman.
In retrospect, that was probably a mistake. Aulus never knew whether the thug had caught the bluff in his voice, or he had seen his distraction, or his anger had simply overcome his fear. He batted the sword aside with his already bleeding hand, and before Aulus could bring it back, his left hand, which had somehow managed to free itself from the woman’s hair, grabbed hold of Aulus’s wrist and twisted it. His hand convulsed, and the sword hilt slid from his fingers to clatter against the ground. Aulus kicked it aside before the thug could reach it, right to the woman’s feet. Aulus didn’t see what happened to it then, because the soldier gave him a shove which sent him five feet down the alleyway and onto his back, his cap flying from his head right before it cracked against the paving stone with a force that set his ears ringing. His eyes cleared just in time to see a shapely shadow leap over his face. He turned his head to see the woman running into the street, sword in one hand and the other clutched to her breast, holding the remains of her dress together. Aulus lifted his head to look at the guard, who blinked stupidly after the fleeing woman, a dangerous expression on his face. He took a step in her direction.
Aulus came to his feet as quickly as his painfully spinning head would allow. Maybe the drunk soldier wouldn’t pursue, maybe he couldn’t catch her, maybe she could fend him off with the sword. Aulus could vanish again, slip away. Maybe he had done enough. Maybe... He stepped between the soldier and his quarry. He had no weapon, and he hoped the soldier was unarmed as well. It made little difference: the man was three times his size, and although he was fat and drunk, Aulus had reason to know he was fast. Aulus
knew he couldn’t win this fight, and the soldier had good reason to want him dead. Sometimes all you could do was stand in the enemy’s way, take the beating given, and hope that was enough.
And hope I survive in the process.
Aulus would have liked to say he gave as good as he got, but that would have been a lie. The man was armored, for Jove’s sake! His last conscious thought, as repeated blows crushed his narrow chest against the wall, was surprisingly plaintive:
She wasn’t Jaelin after all.
This is a 2,549 word excerpt from a 190,000 word novel.
