Such a Form As Grecian Goldsmiths Make

Valens nodded to Rufio. “We’ll tell the eparch or the captain of the watch, when we get to the palace. Not much else we can do, for the moment. I don’t think chasing a nun through the streets with drawn swords would end well.”

Hadrian spat. “There’s Solar spells for dispersing illusions and reverting shapeshifters to their true forms. I could’ve gotten one off on that thing, had I kept my eyes on it for more than a fleeting glance.”
“I have a sneaking suspicion this won’t be your last opportunity. But I would tell you to be on your guard, at this point, whether there were Shadowmen in the city or not. Come.”

The course of Aureliopolis’ winding streets came back to Valens easier than he expected, although there had been changes in the last six decades. What immediately stood out, was that the shops on the waterfront seemed fewer and larger; buildings where several storefronts had stood tended now to be missing interior walls, multiple units having been consolidated, and alleys once barely-walkable from being packed with stalls were now clear enough to bring a hand-cart through.

Valens recalled a plague that had swept the Empire and the entire region of the Inmost Sea thirty or forty years back. It was a vague recollection, as Lyria had escaped the worst of it, and he had other things troubling his mind at the time. Aureliopolis, he recalled now, had been hit hard, and if the city’s population had recovered by now, then it was at least still feeling the effects of the consolidation that had followed.

In the wake of a population collapse– or a crisis with any economic dimension, for that matter– there were always a lucky few who escaped most of the suffering, and were left in a position to grab up land or capital on the cheap, or to expand their influence to fill a political or social power vacuum. For those thus come into wealth or power, and their descendants, each crisis thereafter was another roll of the dice, double-or-nothing to see whether the next plague or famine or war would push them further towards the top, or see them crashing down to destitution or death.

It was for the sake of this destabilizing effect, Valens believed, that the King on High permitted Man or Nature to wreck havoc on the world every so often, to keep paupers and emperors both in a position where they could grow closer in status, or find new heights to rise and further depths to sink, or switch places, with little warning. This way, not a thing in this world was ever truly out of a man’s reach, whatever the contrivances of his fellow man kept him from it; and nothing he had could be taken for granted, whatever he did to safeguard it.

In his more optimistic moments, he thought himself better for having seen both the top and the bottom– though seen was perhaps not the right word, for his time begging. In others, when he worried that this might not be so, he still repeated the sentiment, at worst thinking it a useful lie to help himself move forward.

As he wound through the last lane to the square between the hippodrome and the acropolis, he tossed a small silver coin into the bowl of a beggar whose eyes were white with cataracts, and a near-identical yet near-worthless iron one to a second who was almost certainly watching through a sheer blindfold.

When they emerged onto the city’s centermost square, they found it filling quickly with a crowd, centered on a long gallows in the center. There was an agitation in their murmurs, and strangely-dressed guards ringed the platform, keeping the onlookers at bay. Some had bits of pieces of high-end Imperial equipment, lamellar armor or kite shields bearing the emperor’s double-eagle device, but they had the overall character of northern barbarians, Aleani or peoples from even further hyperborean reaches. Longbows, long-hafted axes and wide-headed boar spears seemed to be their weapons of choice; their helms were built around the same tall, riveted-dome caps as Imperial or Aleani helmets, but the chief protection they offered below the brow was a thick half- or full-faced mask, sometimes richly decorated in the likeness of the wearer’s moustache or beard. Such facial hair was straight, neatly-kept and often ruddy or blond in color. Rather than using silk or other expensive textiles to display his status, their headman, directing them from atop the gallows’ steps, wore a mantle of ermine furs.

An influx of people pushed the four monster-hunters deeper into the crowd, and Valens was jostled into a man with an apparent age a little greater than his own– he was in his sixties, if he had no Nephilic blood whatsoever, though his dark, deep-set eyes made that hard to tell. There was something familiar about those eyes, and that aquiline nose, though it did not have that scar across it when Valens had last seen…

“Arios?”

The man looked, and not without reason, as though he were seeing a ghost. Valens worried his old Prefect of the Guard’s heart had given out. “My emperor?”

Valens put a finger over his lips. “You haven’t seen me, and if you have, my eyes were in no state to see you back.”

“Understood. As far as I’m concerned, my oath to you still stands.”

“Tell me, who are these barbarian mercenaries handling a task suited to either the Palace Guard or the Vigla?”

“This is the new face of the Palace Guard, I’m afraid. Our predecessors back in Urba Rhatia had a long and sordid history of assassinating the very men they were supposed to protect, and I guess your taking the throne, with or without Euphemios’ blessing, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Hypatios wanted guards who, by nature, would have nothing to do with Imperial politics, so now the Guard is made up wholly of warriors from Albion and Thule.”

“I’d quote one of the ancient philosophers about tyrants preferring the company of foreigners to the people they rule, but after a couple years on the throne, I can’t say I don’t see the sense in it. It was one of our own who threw open the gate for Hypatios.”

“He was loyal only to money, which is exactly the trait the Hypatioi were looking for in these barbarians. They’ll get their comeuppance, in due course.”

“Speaking of comeuppances, who’s being hanged and for what, to draw such a crowd?”

“Two charioteers from the Blues, one from the Yellows, and a groom from each team. For a string of murders, in the wake of the last big sports riot.”

“I seem to remember Hypatios being quite the fan of the Blues. I’d expect them to get away with just about anything, so long as the dynasty presently occupying the palace could lean on their hooligans for some unofficial muscle in the streets. Unless Hypatios’ grandson does not have such a preference?”

“I think Alexios is taking the opportunity to proclaim his neutrality, and warn both teams to keep to racing, and away from any of this street gang nonsense.”

“Commendable, if perhaps a little naive. I do not like the look of this crowd.”

Valens turned his attention back to the hangman, affixing the last of five nooses to a damp-eyed boy of maybe sixteen. Only then did he take note of the bird perched on the crossbeam. Its feathers were of gold, as unmistakably as the teeth of Chrysos the sea monster, with red gems for eyes and an Air Motive Stone set into its breast.

“What on the King’s green earth is that thing, Arios?”

The old guardsman smiled. “Your nephew’s eyes and ears. He’s been very busy, since the Nikaphoreans were cast out… well, since most of them were, anyway. One of their preachers still shows up here and there on a street corner, but they run as soon as they see Petrus’ golden beasts.”

The trapdoors dropped from underneath the five convicts, and the crowd held its breath as the five ropes pulled taught…

…and two snapped.

A charioteer in a yellow tunic landed on the cobblestones flat on his back, and before he or the guards could react, another in blue took his hand and dashed for the crowd. A barbarian with a two-handed axe was knocked aside from behind, and the crowd absorbed the two fugitives before the guards showed any sign of understanding what had happened.

Just then, Valens got a telepathic signal. “Feign blindness, now! If you have a blindfold, put it on. I’m sending some guards from the palace to fetch you.”

In the tumult of the crowd, Valens pulled a thin ribbon of cotton from under his cuirass, and tied it over his eyes. He could still see silhouettes and the faint impressions of colors, at least, through it. He double-checked that his distinctively regal helmet was tucked away in his bag– there was no reason to announce that he had ever been an emperor, should he pass unrecognized– and pulled his daughter and his other companions close as the crowd shifted and reformed itself into an enraged mob.

They pushed as a group against the current of bodies, towards the edge of the square, and after a short while– less time than it would have taken to get down from the palace, that much was clear– three figures pushed through the crowd to meet them, parting it by shoving with shields and threatening with axes. A tall northman in lamellar and furs approached them, flanked on his right by another clad head to toe in mail, and on his left by a harsh-eyed and fire-haired shieldmaiden.

“You are the blind monster-hunter?” The barbarian’s Aponephilic bore a thicker accent even than Rufio’s.

Valens avoided the same mistakes he had seen the beggar make earlier, when feigning blindness, turning his head to follow the barbarian’s voice without looking squarely in his eyes. “I am, yes.”

“Not sure how much use you’ll be against a sea monster, but High Prefect Petrus wants you at the palace immediately. Follow me.”