Exiles of Arcadia

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Sword-and-Sandal fantasy by James Gawley.

Between History and Fantasy lies Arcadia

Primus Seneca has lived most of his life in exile. Ten years ago his father led an army against the ruthless dictator Tiberius–and was crushed. Now the general plans his revenge from the snowy heart of the Boreal forest, and sixteen-year-old Primus is eager to join his father’s legion. But once he is sworn in, Primus begins to unravel family secrets that will shake his faith in the cause, his father, and the very nature of the gods.

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Praise for ‘Exiles!’

“I could not put it down! I was up until 5 a.m. reading this book non-stop.” –Caitlyn Burleigh, Fictioholic

“…Spartacus meets Game of Thrones with a hefty dash of The 300…” –Beatriz Collazo, Amazon Reviewer

“It’s a compelling journey… and it does not end at all as I expected.” –William Vitka, Author of Infected

“A well crafted story with convincing, interesting characters…. an enjoyable, engrossing read.” Alice Leiper, Ally’s Desk

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Coming soon: ‘Exiles of Arcadia: Protegée!’

Lilith is the governor’s daughter. For years she has attended her father’s meetings, met with his clients, and advised him in his affairs. But violence is brewing on their borders and the province is suffering. When the barbarians are at the gates, Lilith’s father disappears, leaving her alone in the governor’s chair. With few allies and crumbling support, Lilith must find a way to rally her province against imminent destruction.

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Sample Chapter

To understand the mistakes that led to the destruction of Old Arcadia, we must first understand the unique character of the man who caused its downfall: Marius Venator. Born a barbarian, enslaved at the age of nine, Marius was nevertheless able to rise to the class of knights, and even purchased admission into the Senatorial College. The bare fact that he was able to do this points to a sickening level of degradation in our culture; Arcadia was rotting from within long before the end.

–From The Life of Marius Venator
by the traitor Marcus Falco.

PROLOGUE

     A covered litter made its way up the Avenue of Error, a broad and winding path from the meanest hovels near Arcadia’s gates all the way to the palatial homes of the city’s wealthiest patrons. The litter was a large enough for one man to recline comfortably within, and the loose weave of its colorful drapes shielded its passenger from lesser eyes without shutting out the breeze. It was born by a matched team of slaves: silent, powerfully built men exactly alike in height and coloring. All were shirtless, and all were pale despite the late summer sun that drummed down upon the cobblestones.
     The passenger was a man just past his middle years, his gray hair combed forward to disguise its recession. His arms were thin and his frame was paunchy. Publius Naso, called “The Nose” after his most prominent facial feature, was congratulating himself on an unlikely victory. Today Naso had openly challenged a dictator–and faced him down.
     The day had been too hot for the stagnant, torch-lit air of Venus’ ancient temple, so the august fathers of the Senate had met instead in the People’s Theater, where the vaulted collonades let in the breeze and a sailcloth canopy shielded them from the sun. Tiberius’ men placed his chair on the stage and the senators fanned out around him in the stands, reproducing their accustomed places despite the change in venue. Left of the stage sat Tiberius’ pets: magistrates raised up by the dictator from obscurity and elder statesmen whose debts he had erased. In the center were the moderates, who had remained aloof during the civil war, taking neither side. Naso sat with these. The right was occupied by the repentant: men who had supported Marius ten years ago and accepted amnesty when he was defeated.
     “I believe the dictator’s chair has lost its cushion on the journey from the temple,” murmured Senator Velnius to Naso as the others found their seats. And indeed, Tiberius looked singularly uncomfortable on the stage. His back was straight as a soldier’s, his hands locked on his knees.
     “I’d say it has more to do with the stone above his head than the wood beneath his buttocks,” Naso replied. The People’s Theater had been built by Marius before the war–one reason for his enormous popularity. The alcove above the stage had once held a statue of the man himself, dressed in a soldier’s armor as a reminder of his victories. When Tiberius drove him into exile the statue came down, but the stones beneath its empty pedestal still bore their inscription: BUILT BY GAIUS MARIUS VENATOR, FOR THE PEOPLE WHOM HE LOVED.
     Once the high priest had called them to order, Magistrate Rufus took the floor. He was a small, dark man, seated amongst the dictator’s pets–in fact he was Tiberius’ nephew. He struck the pose of an orator, one hand against his chest and the other lifted to his audience. “Senators, the plague is in our streets. Every day more vagrants crowd inside the walls looking for work. A field of tents has blossomed along the river, and the graveyards are so crowded with the homeless that no man’s tomb is safe from violation. It is these poor souls who bring the plague with them, and what’s more, their hunger has driven up the price of bread. Now we receive news of wildfires in the Roane, which have destroyed nearly half the grain fields. The price of bread will surely rise again.
     “Gentlemen, we must act quickly, and if not to protect our citizens, then to protect ourselves–for we know where the people’s wrath will turn when they cannot feed their children.”
     It was a blunt beginning. Something drastic was coming next, Naso was sure. Rufus had been a senator for just two years; in that time he had proposed three laws. All of them were planted by his uncle, and all of them were unpopular. When the dictator wanted to propose something which would please the Senate, he did it himself. When he wanted to test the waters of opposition without commiting himself, he used his nephew.
     Naso did not have to wait long to discover their plan: Rufus went on to propose that the use of slaves on plantation farms be banned within two hundred miles of the city. This would draw the vagrants outside the walls and ease the spread of plague, he claimed. What was more, he proposed to fix the price of bread at a single denarius per day.
     The reasoning was transparent: with his enemy gone for ten years, Tiberius must soon step down as dictator and submit to a general election. This proposal of his nephew’s was blatant pandering to the people. And it might earn him some popularity, but it would be ruinous to the senators, who were barred from trade of any kind and who depended on their farms for income.
     When Rufus finished his arguments, the agitation in the room was palpable. But despite the muttering that filled the theater, no one rose to speak against the motion.
     That was when Naso found himself on his feet.
     He had spoken just a handful of times in the past ten years. Avoiding entanglement in the war had been a feat of agility, and it meant distancing himself from many of his friends. Since then Naso had little support to count on, and usually avoided attention. Yet the foolishness of this motion drove him to stand. The others turned to look at him. Naso did not spare them a glance. His whole attention was fixed on Magistrate Rufus.
     “Thank you, good Magistrate, for your… well-reasoned contribution. We can always count on the men of your family to be protective of Arcadia’s wealth and welfare. I know how pure are your intentions, and I salute you for them. What’s more, you are right: something must be done about the poor, the plague, and the drought. But the action you propose would be a mistake.
     “You were not yet a senator when your uncle was appointed to be our dictator. If you will indulge me, I will presume to educate you.” The magistrate inclined his head gravely. From his seat on stage, Tiberius gazed steadily at Naso, his face a mask. The other moderates shifted uncomforably on their benches, looking carefully away. “Our war with the demagouge Marius was costly, and when it was over, the treasury was bare. As dictator, Tiberius attempted to stretch the treasury coffers by debasing all newly minted coins with tin. Had you been of age then, you would now recall that all state debts were repaid at a stroke–and for a time we praised our dictator’s wisdom.
     “But nearly all taxes collected since that day have been paid to us in our own adulterated coin. In fact, other than our tax-collectors one can hardly find a man in Arcadia willing to accept a coin that bears your uncle’s face–for their value is well known, though we insist that it is equal to that of any other coin. You say the price of bread has risen? I believe you. The price of everything has risen, and not only since the poor began to crowd our streets.
     “By all means, Senators, let us move these wretches out of our city. Perhaps it will rid us of the plague. But it will not rid us of our past mistakes. Nor can we forbid their consequences with a single law.”
     When Naso sat down, there was no applause. Tense silence held while everyone watched the dictator’s face. Tiberius looked pale.
     “Senators,” the dictator finally said. “I must beg for your forgiveness. You all know my health is poor; these hot days often leave me feeling faint. With your permission, let us adjourn for the day. We shall continue this discussion tomorrow.”
     And with that, the session was over. Tiberius waited until the senators had all filed out before rising from his chair. No one spoke to Naso as they departed, but he caught several appraising glances from his colleagues. He had shown them something new today.
     As his litter reached the top of the Avian hill and approached his house, Naso allowed himself to wonder if Tiberius would even call for a vote at the Senate’s next session. The high priest, who directed the Senate’s proceedure and kept their records, was in Tiberius’ pocket. If the dictator did not wish to remind them of his nephew’s proposal, then it would not be put to a vote. If there was no vote, then the motion could not fail. A failure would be a bad precedent for a man with Tiberius’ ambition; he could use his dictatorial power to override a consensus of the Senate, but Naso doubted that he would. It would reveal him as a tyrant just when he strove to create the illusion of democracy.
     Naso dismounted from his litter inside his courtyard, and took a moment to breathe the fresh air that reached his home atop the Avian. In the city the heat was oppressive, and a warm, fetid smell rose from the sewers. But Naso’s courtyard was full of fountains, where bright little fish darted among the lilies. Flowering lavender, carefully tended by his gardener against the heat, lent a sweet scent to the breeze. Naso pulled off his heavy senatorial toga, fanned himself and called for wine, immediately setting off toward his study. He was thinking of writing a letter to his friend Velnius, urging him to vote against Tiberius’ new law, if indeed a vote should occur tomorrow. Perhaps an opposition party could be rallied; Tiberius would step down soon, and the Republic would breathe free for the first time in ten years. It was a new day, and Naso might just be the man to usher in the dawn. He could already see the words take shape as he strode down the shaded path toward his house.
     But when he reached his study, all thoughts of letters were forgotten. Mathis Caelo was standing beside Naso’s scroll rack, reading silently.
     Mathis was a small man. He was a few inches shorter than Naso, and a few years older. But where Naso’s shoulders were rounded, the older man’s were square as stone, and although Mathis’ hair had gone completely white, it was still thick and wiry as a badger’s. He completely ignored his host as he perused Naso’s private correspondence.
     Naso stood just inside the doorway of his study, trying to force calm upon himself. His first instinct was to cry out for his household guards, but he resisted. His guards were dead. Or else Mathis had bought them. Naso was alone.
     Mathis rolled up the scroll he’d apparently finished with and replaced it on the rack. His fingers brushed lightly over the papyrus rolls as he looked for something else to read. “Make yourself comfortable, Senator.” He indicated a chair in front of Naso’s desk.
     “I enjoyed your little history lesson today.” When Mathis finally turned around, his smile made Naso shudder. He moved around the desk as he spoke, and perched in front of Naso. “For ten years you have been silent. You have not objected to a single motion. Today you stand up and put your dictator in his place.” He spread his hands. “I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”
     “It is my sacred duty to defend the best interests of our Republic. If I believe an idea is harmful, I must speak against it.”
     Mathis did not seem to hear him. He walked back around the desk and lifted a tablet-book and broke its seal. Unfolding the wooden leaves, he read the words pressed into the red wax within. “Cargo manifest of the merchanter Cytheria, bound for Porta Orientalis in the Crescent. Two hundred casks of wine (a middling vintage, not from your estates). Fifty tubs of olive oil. Four hundred bolts of wool. Cheese. Olives. Pork.” He snapped the book shut. “Now why would a man with such rich cargo for sale be concerned over the price of bread? Or whether slaves can work on his plantations?”
     Naso stared at the wax seal that hung broken from the ribbon that had bound the book. It was his personal seal–not his family’s crest, but the private signature he used for business. Mathis had retrieved this manifest from his ship. But had he searched its holds? Was he accusing Naso of violating the senatorial prohibition against trade… or something much worse? Naso spoke through a dry throat.
     ”The… the Senate has not yet voted on the magistrate’s proposal. In the morning I could… change my position. I could vote in favor of the motion.”
     Mathis cocked his head. “You disappoint me, Senator. I thought you had become a man of conviction. I thought, perhaps, that you meant to lead our Republic once Tiberius steps down.” Mathis smiled. “If he steps down.”
     ”If? He has sworn to submit to an election! This is…” Naso stopped himself halfway out of the chair. Slowly he sank back into his seat. Mathis had not blinked.
     ”This is what, dear Publius?”
     Naso shook his head.
     ”This is naked tyranny?”
     ”No. Tiberius is not a tyrant. I never said that.”
     ”Of course he is.”
     ”…What?”
     ”Of course he’s a tyrant, Publius. He means to rule.” Naso stared at him, but Mathis simply re-strung the tablet-book and placed it neatly on the desk. “Not every despot is a villain, Senator. And not every oath is sacred. Ten years ago another man tried to make himself king. A barbarian. Where would you and I be right now if Tiberius had not seized power then?” Mathis reached beneath the desk to grasp something. Naso braced himself, suddenly aware that two soldiers were standing in the doorway behind him. “I am not troubled by accusations of tyranny, Senator. It is hypocrisy I cannot stand.”
     Mathis lifted a heavy purse and dropped it on the table. Naso recognized the ivory banker’s mark that dangled from its drawstring. Until this morning, it had been buried in his garden. Fresh earth still clung to the leather. “No man will accept a coin with the dictator’s face on it. That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Mathis whipped a dagger from his belt and sliced the drawstring, upending the bag. Coins of silver and gold bounced across the table. “No man, including you.”
     A silver denarius landed in Naso’s lap. It was identical to an Arcadian coin in all ways but two: its metal was nearly twice as pure, and on the obverse, in place of the dictator’s head, it depicted Gaius Marius Venator. Surrounding the stern face of the exile general was his motto: Righteous, Vigilant, Relentless.
     Naso looked up to find Mathis glaring down at him. “Shall I recount for you Cytheria’s real manifest? Swords. Shields. Spears. Armor.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “All Arcadian legion issue. Where were they going, friend Publius? Show me how you perform your sacred duty.”
     Naso kept his hands on his knees. He could feel the sweat of his palms through the fabric of his leggings. “I do not answer to you. You have no legal authority.” Again Mathis only stared at him. His eyes were the same gray as his tunic. “I will answer no more questions,” Naso vowed.
     Mathis smiled. “Of course you will, my dear Publius. You’ll answer every one.”
     On the ceiling of Naso’s study was a mural of the demigod Seapus, who stole knowledge from the gods and sold it to mankind. Rough hands closed around Naso’s arms, and his chair toppled over as they dragged him from the room. On the ceiling, near the doorway, the mural showed the demigod’s punishment: his father Jupiter, king of the heavens, staked Seapus down in the desert with his limbs stretched toward the four corners of the world. Wolves came nightly to feast on Seapus’ immortal flesh; they were his father’s pets.

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Sample Chapter: Protegée

Among the Woade, every man is a king unto himself. Tribal decisions are made in council–racous, intemperate affairs where any man or even woman may speak–and the council’s decisions only bind those who choose to follow them.

-The Elder Marius,
The Conquest of the Boreal Peoples

JUDGEMENTS

     Ponius Spyrans was a portly man with thin hair that he combed backward over a shiny scalp. He liked to stand with one arm folded across his chest, resting on his ample belly, and he rubbed his thumb against his curled fingers as he talked. Lilith stared at the plump digits as she listened. “A bonus would be a most a welcome gesture of support, you know. Most welcome.”
     Julia Fabian–called ‘Lilith’ by her father–glanced up from the ceaselessly rubbing fingers to look her guest in the eye. “No doubt a bonus is always welcome, Publicanus. But it is not the custom for tax collectors, is it?”
     Lilith sat at her father’s desk in the small office that contained the family’s funerary masks. Cast in wax shortly after death, the masks preserved the death expressions of generations of Fabians–some serene, some wracked by agony. A candle flickered behind each face, warming the small room and giving an unearthly quality to the light. Lilith appreciated the effect it had on her father’s clients: in this room it was impossible to forget the antiquity of the Fabian line. To drive the point home, Lilith had positioned the desk so that her mother’s mask hung just above her head; Judith Fabian had been the cousin of Tiberius himself, and Lilith was not shy about taking advantage of her family connection to the dictator. For all that she managed her father’s public affairs, Lilith held no official title, and so she drew her authority wherever she could.
     Spyrans was sweating in the collective warmth of a hundred votive candles. Somehow his lips were always wet, as though he had just devoured some piece of savory and failed to wipe his mouth. “A bonus is not the custom, no. It is not the custom for tax revenues to drop precipitously two years in a row, either.”
     As publicanus, Spyrans had the right to collect taxes on behalf of the Fabians. He had won this right at auction in the spring, one week after fields were sown in the province. Essentially Spyrans paid the entire province’s taxes in advance, and in exchange he kept whatever tribute he could legally collect at the end of the year–even if that tribute was much higher than the minimum tax.
     “If you do not wish to absorb shortfalls, Publicanus, then you cannot expect to reap overages,” Lilith reminded him.
          Spyrans scowled. “I know the risks of my position, dear. I’ve been doing it long enough. What I am trying to explain to you is that these are not simple shortfalls. This is not a drought or a blight or a few farmers withholding my due. This matter concerns your family directly. If you do not understand that, you should ask your father to explain it to you. This is the sort of affair that a a governor deals with–in fact it’s the same trouble that called him into court today.”
     Lilith kept her smile in place. Spyrans wanted to see her lose her temper. She would not indulge him. And it was true, what the publicanus said: the governor had been forced to forego all meetings with his clients in order to hear the appeal of one Felix Xario, a centurion whose negligence had allowed barbarians to overrun and destroy an entire legion outpost.
     “The governor is responsible for the safety of his province,” Spyrans went on. “When he does not protect his fields, the barbarians burn them. Dead farmers don’t pay taxes. And while you could allow me to suffer the shortfall in revenue… well. I would expect the next year’s bidding to be lackluster, which means your taxes to the capitol may fall short. I understand Tiberius is often impatient when revenue plummets. I would hate to see your father blamed.”
     It was simple extortion. The idea of bribing one man to boost the bidding at an auction was ridiculous; even if Spyrans could some how drive up interest in the tax contracts by himself, there was no reason at all to think that he would keep his word. Either the borders would stabilize and prices would go up–in which case Spyrans would claim the credit–or matters would continue to decline and before long the Fabians would be replaced as governors. Even if Spyrans blatantly abused their confidence, it would be easy to evade retribution.
     Sometimes, Lilith reminded herself, it helps to be underestimated. She knew it was no accident that the publicanus made his visit while the governor was occupied. He hoped to bully her into making some concession.
     Lilith uncrossed her ankles and rose fluidly to her feet. “Thank you so much, my dear Ponius.” She held out her hands, and Spyrans extended his chubby fingers to be clasped. “You are such a good friend. I will tell my father everything you have said, of course… but between us, I think you should worry less for the welfare of others and more about yourself. Start by bidding less next year.” She squeezed his damp hands and smiled sweetly at him. The fat man’s face reddened.
     He took his leave with barest courtesy, scarcely muttering ‘good health’ before he heaved his bulk through the narrow office door.
     Lilith stood for a time, letting stillness return to the room. Spyrans wore more perfume than she did, and the cloying scent of it lingered in the air along with the faintly sour odor of the fat man’s sweat. She looked over the masks of her ancestors, wondering whether they would approve of her actions. These were the faces of consuls and senators, heroes of the Republic. None of them would resort to bribing their own clients, she was sure.
     She gazed for a moment at the face of her mother, studying the graceful sweep of her nose, the warmth of her mouth. The last time Lilith had seen her mother, her face had been contorted in pain, hair plastered to her scalp by sweat. But death had cleared suffering from her brow and gentled the lines of her mouth. She looked to be at peace. Judith Fabian had died eight years ago, giving birth to Lilith’s little brother. It was her fifth attempt to give Julius Fabian a son; she died believing that she had finally succeeded. But the boy had not lived to see his first birthday, and was buried without a name.
     Lilith was sorry that she had let a grasping nobody like the publicanus into her mother’s presence. Yet without that vivid reminder of Fabian power, Ponius might have behaved much worse than he had. His sneering voice echoed in her mind. You should ask your father to explain it to you. Lilith wiped her hands against her dress, unable to clean away the feel of the publicanus’ clammy grasp.
     The sound of raised voices reached her from the Atrium: the slow baritone of Spyrans and a rapid, lilting contralto that set Lilith’s teeth on edge. She turned away from her mother and strode out of the office.
     “I have experienced all the Fabian hospitality I care to endure,” Spyrans was saying as Lilith entered the cooler air of the atrium. Sunlight flooded in from the open panel in the center of the ceiling, and the air was freshened by potted plants that surrounded the shallow impluvium in the center of the room, where rain collected and fed the house cistern. The publicanus’ words were directed at a slender, copper-haired girl of scarcely nineteen years: Vyria Fabian was pretty, with smooth skin, high cheekbones, and a graceful jaw. The governor’s new wife was three years younger than his daughter.
     “You might encourage your husband to appoint a real lieutenant. I’d say he’s made do with family quite long enough.” Spyrans brushed aside the wine that a slave girl offered him and strode away from Vyria before she could reply. Alvert, the governor’s majordomo, held the heavy wooden doors open for the publicanus and shut them firmly behind him.
     Vyria turned to Lilith, her green eyes bright with anger. “What have you done?”
     Lilith sighed. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk back into the house. Instead she crossed the atrium and lifted the untouched wine glass from the slave-girl’s tray. Vyria glared at her as she sipped. The wine was cool and sweet, whispering of summer strawberries. “This was too good to waste on Spyrans.”
     “Hospitality is never wasteful. Ponius Spyrans is an important man.”
     “You mean his wife is important. To you, at least.” Claudia Spyrans was the prima of the cult of Juno, and she wielded enormous influence among the local women. Before the Fabians arrived, she had been first woman in the province, having moved there as a child just after the territory was claimed from the Woade. She was quick to remind Lilith of her long standing in the province, and just as quick to remind the provincial women of her enviable origin in the capital. Vyria wanted desperately to impress her.
     “She is important, because she knows that a woman’s place in politics is to advise her husband, not to humiliate his clients.”
     “Her husband was attempting extortion. What would you have me do? Let the governor become a puppet for his own tax collector?”
     “Why did you have to do anything? This is none of your business!”
     “My father authorizes me to meet with his clients–”
     “Oh, please. You are ‘authorized’ to collect his tribute in the mornings, not to run the province for him. You’re just a silly girl playing at governor, and every time you forget your place you drag the Fabian name through the mud.”
     Lilith set her glass down with a clack. “The Fabian name.”
     Vyria lifted her pretty chin and placed a hand upon her belly. “That’s right. The name I’ll give my son when he is born. Tell me, what name will you give to your son? Or do you intend to remain childless, and haunt your father’s house forever?”
     The pregnancy again. Vyria used her unborn child like a club, hammering down anyone who did not immediately submit to her will. Even the governor seemed helpless to refuse her. “I imagine I’ll remain in my father’s house as long as my father wants me to do so,” she said to Vyria.
     The younger woman sniffed. “It’s indecent, being unmarried at your age. If your father doesn’t find you a husband soon, you can be sure that I will.”
     “Do me no favors, Vyria. I am content to be alone.”
     She laughed. “No doubt you deserve to remain so, but for the sake of your father’s standing we must inflict you upon someone. Perhaps there is some man in this province who will find it amusing to have a wife who pretends to manage his public affairs.”
     “No doubt there is. And when the governor gives you permission to manage his family, I’m sure you’ll find him. Now you will excuse me; my father wants me to witness what remains of his hearing. Affairs of state–I’m sure you understand.” Lilith turned away before her father’s wife could reply. Alvert hastily dragged the front doors open, and Lilith emerged into the buzzing sunshine of the courtyard.
     

***

     
     Whatever trouble there was on the borders of the province, it did not stop the ships from traveling up the Greywater River from the sea. The peal of dockside bells competed with the ringing of hammers from Ironside, where carts of ore down from the mountains were rendered into steel. The wind shifted, and for a moment Lilith’s nostrils were assaulted by the chemical smell of pulverized, heated metal; then the breeze died down and the crisp taste of autumn returned.
     There were as many construction sites in the provincial capitol as completed buildings. Apartment blocks of wood were rising along both Dockside and Ironside, and the stonemasons were busy crowding Governor’s Hill with the houses of the rich. Although the highways into town were guarded by watchtowers, the governor had not yet ordered the construction of city walls. Even the college of priests were unwilling to drag their golden plow around the city to define its limits, so obvious was it that today’s borders tomorrow would be obsolete.
     It felt good to stretch her legs as she descended the hill, and Lilith wished she could simply keep walking, past the town and up the river, into the forest and away from foolish women and their vicious little comments. No doubt you deserve to remain so. Lilith shook her head and bit down on her lip. She was not content to be alone, not truly. She simply understood the alternative. The governor’s aide could walk openly into town, but a nobleman’s wife would be expected to shield herself from the public eye. Vyria had never once descended the hill except on the shoulders of slaves. The sight of her father’s wife riding in her draped and gilded litter always reminded Lilith of a canary in a cage, covered over to keep it silent.
     Lilith had not always found it so easy to walk in public. Years ago, when they still lived in Arcadia, the street had loomed like a nightmare outside their doors. She had wondered how anyone could stand to leave their homes at all. It was for her sake that Julius Fabian begged a favor from Tiberius and moved them out to the country. But on the way to take up the governorship, his chosen second died suddenly. Publicus had been her father’s secretary for years; he would have been a strong lieutentant. Without him the governor was suddenly adrift, overwhelmed by the task of establishing himself as the authority among strangers.
     That was when Lilith saw a way to repay her father for his sacrifice.
     She had begun by learning the name and history of every major figure in provincial politics, and she whispered them to her father as he met with his new clients. It was the prime duty of a secretary to make the governor appear as if he knew even strangers intimately, and with Lilith at his side the governor siezed power in his new province as swiftly and surely as a soldier gripped his spear. Lilith’s confidence grew in turn, and eventually her father deputized her to manage his meetings alone. Now Lilith’s days trapped indoors were becoming a distant memory; with every negotiation she felt less afraid.
     She wound her way through the twisting avenues that grew like roots between the rigid grid of the city’s cobbled main streets. Children dodged among the rising wooden frames of new apartment blocks, and townspeople moved between market stalls that crowded the narrow lanes. Lilith moved briskly between them, meeting no one’s eyes. People stepped aside as she passed, out of deference to her position.
     The temple of Lexis was the most impressive building in the province, built on a natural promontory above the harbor. Taller by far than the neighboring markets, faced with a broad, peak-roofed porch and capped by a wide and graceful dome, the marble temple was a constant reminder that where Arcadia went, the Law came with her. Normally the shade of the portico was a popular stage for teachers of rhetoric and philosophy, but today the entire porch was crowded with provincials who peered through the temple’s massive stone doors at the goings-on within.
     Lilith stood for a time, staring at the crowd. Walking openly in the street was one thing. There were hundreds of people here. Enough to trample her, enough to pull her apart if they wanted. Lilith wondered if she could turn back… but her father had asked her to attend. There was no other entrance to the temple. She beckoned the guards who had trailed her from the mansion, and they stepped forward to part the way. Despite the prodding of their staves, the people moved but grudgingly. In the end Lilith was forced to press close to the guards’ backs lest the crowd close in on her.
     At first she was able to remain calm. They shuffled forward half a step at a time, until Lilith could no longer see over the heads of the throng. Then a woman bumped into her and Lilith caught her breath, clutching her arms around herself. The woman tried to push back into the crowd, but the shoulders had closed ranks behind her and she remained pressed against Lilith’s body. Lilith stiffened but kept her gaze on the guardsmen’s backs.
     Halfway to the door, she could feel the wall of bodies around her as a physical weight, and she wished she could turn back and escape… but the way was shut behind her. Her throat constricted, and it became difficult to breathe. The edges of her vision began to dim, and Lilith squeezed her eyes shut, putting a hand on her guard’s shoulder to guide her. I will not panic, she commanded herself. It had been months since her last episode; she had allowed herself to hope they were gone for good. I will not shame myself.
     Lilith shuffled along blindly behind her escort, repeating those words to herself like a prayer. I will not panic. I will not shame myself. Nevertheless the tide began to rise within her. If she panicked, if she tried to claw her way out, the crowd would surely turn on her. They woud throw her down, and her guards would draw steel to defend her. The first cut would send them into a frenzy and they would all be trampled….
     She was fighting to control her breathing, struggling not to think about the people pressed around her when suddenly, blessedly, they passed through the temple doors and into the wide room within. For a moment Lilith stood at the edge of the room with her back pressed against the cool marble, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. When her trembling subsided, she opened her eyes.
     The temple of Lexis was composed of a tremendous rotunda abutted by dozens of smaller rooms and altars. At the rear of the rotunda, on a wide plinth, stood the goddess herself in white marble, draped in a linen robe fringed with purple. One hand clasped a roll of parchment to her breast; the fingers of the other hands brushed the head of the Arcadian eagle who perched by her side. Beneath her pedestal stood the accused.
     Felix Xario stood straight as a sword, glaring out at the governor who sat in judgement of him and the people who had come to watch him be condemned. He was dressed in rough tunic of stained gray wool, belted with rope. Manacles bound his wrists and chains of iron joined his feet. Xario had a head of close, sandy-blonde hair, and even from the rear of the chamber Lilith could see that one side of his face was purple and swollen. Guards flanked him, and the advocates were seated to either side of the statue of Lexis behind him. The governor sat in the first row of benches that crowded the rotunda, directly across from the accused. Nearly all the benches were full, but as she looked around Lilith felt at tap at her shoulder, and a slave belonging to Titus Atticus beckoned her forward.
     He had saved a place for her. Atticus was a wiry old badger, her father’s closest friend in the province. He had been a senator once, but his political career was long over. Bored of managing his estates, Atticus amused himself by writing satirical plays; his latest piece centered on a self-important general dangerously reminiscent of Tiberius, who got himself appointed dictator-for-life only to be hoodwinked by a clever slave into giving it all up. The governor had begged him not to stage the play at the last festival, but Atticus had ignored him. The people had loved it, but a few loyalists of the dictator’s had nearly started a riot. As Lilith took her place on the bench beside Atticus, a smile deepened the wrinkles around his eyes.
     “How was the day’s business?” he whispered. “You keep your old man out of trouble?”
     “If I wanted to do that, I’d tell him to have you arrested.”
     Atticus grinned. “It wouldn’t be the worst advice.” He nodded toward the advocate who was just winding down his arguments, and leaned close to her ear. “The legion lawyer has just finished reading his transcript of the original, military trial. It seems that Xario had a mistress in town–the wife of a priest of Ceres. When his cohort commander chased some raiders off into the forest, Centurion Xario took the chance to visit his mistress. We heard the testimony of the priest himself: his holiness says that when the raiders came back to finish their job, Xario was in town with his wife instead in camp where he should be. The centurion denies it. He says he was in town inspecting the damage from the raid. But no one else from the outpost has survived, and none of the townspeople came forward to support him.”
     Lilith nodded her thanks, but said nothing. Her father had offered the accused a final chance to speak in his own defense.
     Felix Xario shuffled forward to the center of the room, his chains dragging on the marble floor. The look he threw to the crowd was one of contempt. “Sheep,” he growled. His voice was a mason’s rasp filing stone. He turned to the lawyers. “Pecking crows.” He turned to face Lilith’s father. “It was a fit of madness that made me look for justice in your courtroom. I’ve had time to consider, since I first made my appeal. I realize you already know the truth of what happened at the outpost. So did the legates, when they saw fit to scapegoat me for that slaughter. You’ll only do the same.” Xario looked once more at the people. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying more. Then he shook his head. “Get on with it.” Lilith’s father rose from his seat to answer him.
     The governor was a slight man, with grey hair going to white and brown spots on his forehead near the hairline. He wore a toga of the finest white, outshining even the marble walls behind him. He wore no other ornament or decoration—the robe was enough, along with his bearing, to mark him as the man in charge. “Very seldom do the civilian courts see fit to interfere with military justice. To date, it has happened fewer than a dozen times. In each case, the safety of the Republic was at issue. There is no such gravity to this matter.”
     Governor Fabian paused, but he never took his eyes off of Xario. “Furthermore, the facts of the case would be more than enough to condemn the accused in any civilian court throughout the Republic. With his commander absent, it was the sacred duty of Centurion Felix Xario to protect his outpost. He failed to discharge this responsibility.
     “Therefore, as rector of the provincial court and governor of this colony, I do not see fit to overturn the tribunal’s decision. Felix Xario Flax, you are guilty of neglect and dereliction of the sacred duty charged to you by Mars Ultor, and you will repay your debt by shedding your blood in his Arena. May the gods below welcome your soul.”
     It was the outcome the people were expecting. No great stir passed through the audience, but the benches scraped against the floor and the rotunda was filled with a low murmur as they began to rise. Two officers stepped forward from their stations beside the judge’s box, to take Xario in hand. He did not protest, but remained in place, staring at the governor, as the clerics ushered the spectators out of the court. The temple cleared slowly. Atticus remained with his servants, as did Lilith and her guards. When the room was clear, the governor took a moment to confer quietly with the attorneys. Xario’s chains scraped the marble floor as they led him toward the door; Lilith stared at the purple-red swelling on the bridge of his nose, wondering what he looked like without the bruises. Blood was caked in the stubble at the corner of his mouth.
     Then he caught her looking.
     The guards missed a step as Xario jerked to a halt. His eyes crawled over her, and suddenly Lilith wanted to peel off her skin. She felt naked under his gaze, as she had not felt in years. Atticus put a protective hand on her shoulder but she cringed away, unable to bear his touch. Xario leered, amused by her fear. The dry blood at the corner of his mouth cracked as he grinned. As he opened his mouth to speak, one of Atticus’ men stepped past the guards and smashed him across the face with a leather-wrapped cudgel.
     “Eyes down, scum.”
     But Xario lifted his head, fresh blood running down his chin, and smiled again at Lilith. She knew a moment of irrational terror; for an instant it was as though they were alone in the courthouse, and no chains on his arms held him back. Then the guards were dragging Xario out, and Atticus was patting her on the arm. Lilith sank onto the bench and lowered her head between her knees, unable to shrug off Atticus’ insistent hand.
     “Everyone get out.” Her father’s voice was heavy with command, but Atticus hesitated.
     “Are you sure? Lilith seems–”
     “She’ll be fine. Just go.”
     Lilith wanted to let Atticus know that it was alright to leave, that she did not want his eyes on her as she recovered, but she kept her gaze locked on the marble between her feet as he shuffled out. After a time, her father spoke quietly. His voice had a hollow quality in the empty temple.
     “I thought you were getting better.”
     Lilith put her elbows on her knees and pushed herself up. Her forehead rested in the palms of her hands. “It’s just been a very difficult day.”
     The governor absorbed that in silence. Then: “If you had let me punish that son of a bitch years ago, you would not have so many days like today.”
     Lilith was instantly weary. “Let it go, Father. Please.”
     “To think about him, walking around Arcadia as though he were a model citizen instead of a… it makes me sick.”
     The last thing Lilith wanted to do right now was comfort her father. But he had never gone against her wishes or hesitated for an instant to believe her. He deserved to think he was helping. She sniffed and rubbed a hand across her eyes, then stood up and smoothed her dress. “I’m alright, Father. Truly. I’m fine now.” When he hesitated, Lilith dredged up a smile for him. “Walk with me back to the manor?”
     He looked at her for a long time. Finally he offered her his arm. “Let’s go home.”
     As they climbed the hill together, Lilith told her father of Syprans’ visit. “He was quite vexed when I declined,” she told him when she’d finished recounting their conversation. “Far more upset than I thought warranted, to be truthful.” She did not describe her words with Vyria. Her father’s wife would tell him that story soon enough.
     He walked in silence for a moment, then: “How much would the friendship of Ponius Spyrans have cost us?”
     The question took Lilith by surprise. “I did not negotiate terms. No price would be a bargain, I think. Even if we bribe him, nothing guarantees that Spyrans will not bid low next year. And his attempt to use the threat of inquiry from Arcadia to coerce us—you yourself taught me never to be herded by the clients.”
     “So you refused him.”
     “Yes. I was perhaps a bit more brusque than I should have been.” Lilith dreaded the portrait Vyria would paint of the publicanus’ departure. Her father nodded silently, but there was a frown on his face, and worry lines between his eyebrows.
     “Father? Why should we entertain the threats of a man like Spyrans?”
     Julius sighed. “I would like to rest for a moment.” And they turned off the avenue to a small red-tiled plaza centered by a public fountain. It was a simple affair, compared to the great water-mazes of Arcadia; there was a small statue made of bronze, and a single marble bench. The statue was a naked boy urinating, and the water streamed forth from his penis. Lilith looked away, uncomfortable at the sight. Her father took the hammered bronze dipper and filled it from the fountain. He drank, and replaced the dipper on its hook, then sat down on the bench to catch his breath.“Look at the ships down there. Every day they come to collect our iron, and to deliver more colonists to us.”
     “The province is growing swiftly,” she agreed.
     “For now. But rumors of disaster are already spreading. It has been a difficult year in the other provinces as well. Where you and I see ill luck, the people see punishment from the gods. Some even gossip that General Marius is still alive, that his legions survived the war and are hiding deep in the Boreal forest, plotting their return.”
     “Marius has been dead for ten years. If he were alive, he would have returned by now.”
     “Probably so. But the common people hold on to hope–some of them still believe that Marius was their champion. And now the Woade are coming out of the forest and descending on our outposts. You saw how Xario’s appeal was attended. The people are nervous.”
     “The borders have always been dangerous.”
     The governor nodded. “But the legion has never been defeated–or so we like to say. Yet this latest disaster…. a band of barbarians overran a fortified legion camp and slaughtered the entire unit. It is unprecedented.”
     Lilith thought of the contempt on Xario’s face as he refused to defend himself. You already know the truth of what happened at the outpost. “Is it true, then? Is Xario merely a scapegoat?”
     Her father looked terribly weary as he gazed into the distance. “The legions convicted Xario. As I said in court, civilian judges rarely overturn the verdict of the legates.” He sighed. “Yet I did tell one lie in court today. In this case, the safety of the Republic is very much at stake.”
     Lilith followed his gaze out over the stony, grey-green hills, toward the Boreal Forest that darkened the horizon. Somewhere out there, past the cleared farmland and the neatly cobbled roads, an entire garrison had disappeared. A wind from the north brought the smell of burning metal to her nostrils, and Lilith hugged herself against a sudden chill.

Exiles of Arcadia: Protegée coming Summer 2013
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