Jason Lewis - Phoenix Rising

His uncle Martius had put his mind to rest that evening. “Nothing to worry about,” he had said. “This is good news, he must be recovering some of his faculties. Keep trying.”

Then Metrotis had asked the obvious question. “Uncle, why, if he is a war hero, is he chained to a wall and locked in a room in your town house?”

The general had given him a curious look before sighing deeply. “You are right, nephew, you are right. It is not fair to keep a hero in this manner. Truth be told, I was concerned for you… You do not know how to fight, and if he had truly lost his mind… Yes, I know I assured you he was not harmful. I will leave the decision to you. If you wish, you can have the chains removed.”

Metrotis was left unsure if his uncle meant him harm or was concerned for his safety. From that moment on, two housemen, clearly legionary veterans by their tattoos, stood guard outside the door to the man’s cell at all times.

A week later Metrotis had asked the guards to remove the man’s chains.

Metrotis had looked into his unfathomable eyes as he was unshackled. “Don’t be afraid,” he had said. “We are not going to hurt you.”

Afterwards, Metrotis reflected that whilst the barbarian, Wulf, still wore his chains, he had made the decision to release the man that he felt in his soul was the more dangerous of the two. Despite the oddity of the man, Metrotis had a sense that he was, in some bizarre way, an innocent; there was a quality to him that might lull the unwary into a false sense of security. Metrotis did not want to be the unwary.

The man took a step towards him, eyes blank and emotionless but fixed on his own regardless.

Metrotis waved a hand absently towards the low cot that stood against the wall. “Go, sit down Optuss.” His Uncle Martius had refused to share the man’s name and so Metrotis had taken to using the name of a long dead pet dog, with sleek black fur, that he had as a child.

Optuss promptly turned and sat on the cot, returning his gaze to Metrotis’s face, his expression blank and seemingly uncomprehending.

A polite knock at the door interrupted Metrotis’s thoughts. People could be so rude sometimes; he wondered why they couldn’t leave him to think in peace.

“Sorry to disturb you, Master Metrotis.” It was the ever-formal proctor, Villius. “The general has asked that we come and see our guest.”

“Yes, yes!” Metrotis snapped. He had become quite territorial when it came to Optuss. “Who is ‘we’?”

Villius stepped into the room followed by a man in the uniform of a cohort commander.

Metrotis prided himself on knowing the insignia of rank and the uniforms of the men in his uncle’s precious army.

Metrotis said, “Well, what can I help you with?”

The unknown man stood like a statue, eyes wide and fixed on Optuss.

“The general wanted to know if Father Conlan remembered our guest,” Villius replied. His gaze drifted from the man called Conlan to Optuss and back again.

“Father Conlan?” Metrotis frowned. He’s far too young to be a legion father . “But I think you must be mistaken, Villius… This man is wearing a cohort commander’s uniform. Really, I mean you should know being a proctor and — ”

The newcomer, Conlan, raised his hand towards him, palm outward in a gesture of silence. Metrotis made a mental note that the man really was exceptionally rude.

“It’s a long story,” said Conlan.

Villius gestured towards Optuss. “Well?”

Metrotis allowed his frown to deepen; he did not enjoy being ignored and enjoyed his ignorance even less. “What is this all about?” His voice sounded tense to his own ears.

“I remember him. He was one of them. I am sure of it. He wore the image of a bear on his breastplate. We showed him to the general at Sothlind after he fell. I saw him kill at least a dozen of them in less than a minute. The gods only know how many he killed in the end.”

The father, Conlan, looked apprehensive as he turned his gaze back to Optuss.

“What is he doing here? I wondered what the general had done with him, but why keep him in his own house? You should have him restrained; you wouldn’t believe how fast they can move.”

Metrotis puffed his chest out slightly, and stood to his full height. He was pleasantly surprised to see he was slightly taller than the imposing young legion father. “Optuss is under my care. I can assure you I have performed many tests and he does not represent a danger to anyone.” I wish I could truly believe that . “I arranged for him to be unchained myself and he is perfectly biddable. You see, his mind has been injured by the trauma of war.”

Conlan laughed lightly. “If this is the same man I saw, and I am certain it is, he could kill you in a second.”

“That may be so and time will tell,” Metrotis conceded, feeling the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end again. “But believe me, at the moment he is not capable of harm.” He turned to Optuss and waved a hand. “Lie down, Optuss.”

He was delighted to see his subject obey without hesitation, gaze still firmly fixed on Metrotis.

“It’s true, Father Conlan,” said Villius.

Metrotis wondered to himself what it must be like for Villius to have to show such respect to one his own age.

“The man does exactly as he is told,” Villius continued. “He has developed some kind of bond with Master Metrotis here; he is biddable as a dog. I do not think he is a threat.”

Conlan shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I am telling you, you didn’t see it. The man is a killer.”

Villius shrugged. “I will take your word for it, sir.” He turned to Metrotis. “The general also wants Father Conlan to meet our other guest while he is here, if you please, Master Metrotis.”

Metrotis wondered if his subjects were going to become exhibits to be shown to all and sundry. “Oh, very well. Optuss, stay.” He led the men out of the room, leaving Optuss lying on the cot. The housemen closed and bolted the door behind them.

Some ten paces down the hall he stopped outside the room occupied by Wulf. “You will find this one not half as pleasant, I am afraid.” He opened the door and ushered the men in. “Don’t step over the line on the floor. We are not quite sure if he is house trained yet.”

Conlan stopped dead as they entered the room, well short of the safety line, his face a sudden mask of rage.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me…” Metrotis gave a small smirk. “You know Wulf as well?”

Wulf looked up, a feral grin on his face. “Hallo Metrotis,” he said in a thick, guttural accent. He looked curiously at the newcomers.

A long silence followed. Villius broke the quiet.

“Father Conlan? How do you know this man?”

Conlan seemed to force the words from unwilling lungs. “That’s the whore-son that killed Father Yovas.”

Felix Ellasand ran a brush slowly through her hair and stared at herself in the mirror. It was a routine that she had followed since she was a child and she found it, in many ways, the most relaxing part of any day.

Her reflection revealed the years had been kind. At fifty, she could still pass for much younger. Only the occasional grey hair marred the illusion. Martius had always maintained that she was the most beautiful woman in the Empire. Ellasand wondered if that was ever the case.

She tutted at her own vanity and turned away from the mirror in disgust. In truth, her moon bleed had started to stutter, just as her mother had told her it would. Ellasand found her temper frayed more as she got older. Only the other day, Elissa had almost driven her to despair with her incessant talk of a young noble she had met at court.