Robert Newcomb: Rise of the Blood Royal

Persephone smiled in return. “I enjoy the spectacles as much as anyone,” she whispered back. “You know that. Besides, my place is with you. The palace is wild with rumors that there is to be some form of entertainment today. I must say that I’m curious.”

Vespasian nodded. “Along with the usual lot of criminals and professional combatants, newly captured Shashidan skeens will participate today. They were recently taken by the Twenty-third Legion.”

“Did they give up any useful information?” Persephone asked.

Vespasian shook his head. “We heard little that we did not already know.”

As he looked back out over the massive crowd, Vespasian couldn’t help but be reminded of the immense importance of class structure in Rustannican life. There were four distinct levels, and one’s position in society was irrevocably determined at birth by the nature of his or her blood.

The “krithians,” those lucky few born with fully endowed blood that complete command over the craft of magic, were protected by special laws and privileges, and considered to be the cream of the Rustannican Empire. Below the krithians were those born with partially endowed blood. They were known as “hematites,” or simply “partials.” They, too, were able to call on the craft, but their gifts were limited to the craft’s organic side, such as herbmastery. The next class of citizens was comprised of those with unendowed blood. Called “phrygians,” they were unable to summon the craft in any form. The lowest class was the huge multitudes of slaves, also known as “skeens.” By way of continual captures and new births, the slave population had grown so much in recent years that it made up a full third of Rustannica’s population.

Regardless of age, gender, or blood type, all skeens were captured Shashidan soldiers, civilians, or their descendants. Those not chosen to supply fodder for the games were sold at auction by the government in Ellistium’s great forum on the first of each month. If they had once been magic practitioners, the craft was immediately used to wipe their memories clean of the ability to call upon their gifts, thus ensuring that they would never again present a threat to the empire.

As he surveyed the swelling crowd, Vespasian sat back in his throne, thinking. Most Rustannicans believed that their nation’s strength lay in her vast legions and her treasury of gold. But they were wrong. Rustannica’s real power lay in the continuing survival of left-leaning endowed blood. That was the true ruling factor here, and nothing would ever change it.

Twelve more people entered the emperor’s private box. The seven men and five women greeted Vespasian and Persephone warmly, then took nearby seats. These august mystics made up the reveredPon Q’tar. Protected by time enchantments, each was scores of centuries old, and some had even taken part in the ancient revolt against Shashida and the start of the War of Attrition. Their many responsibilities included ongoing craft research, advising the emperor and empress, and overseeing the day-to-day operations of the legions. Each cleric was dressed in a bright white robe, its folds gracefully draping from the left shoulder to the right thigh. A deep burgundy border ran all along the garment’s length, signifying its wearer’s lofty office.

Shortly after thePon Q’tar arrived, the crowd quieted-a sign that the women of the Priory of Virtue were filing into their box on Vespasian’s right. They wore diaphanous white gowns; matching veils fell from simple gold circlets to cover their faces. No other jewelry adorned them, and no badges or symbols of their sisterhood were evident. As they took their seats, the First Mistress of the Priory, also known as the Femiculi, bowed to Vespasian. He bowed in return, and the crowd quickly returned to its raucous ways.

Soon thirty of the imperial tribunes appeared. They were in full dress uniform, complete with gold and red horsehair-combed helmets and blood-red capes. Each man saluted Vespasian by thumping his closed fist against his golden breastplate, then quickly opening his palm and extending his arm straight ahead. They then removed their helmets and took their seats.

By law, each tribune and several of the centurions serving under him had to be krithians trained in the ways of magic as well as warfare. Groups of lesser mystics called Heretics of the Guild also accompanied each legion, to offer additional strength and guidance in the craft.

Once his officers were in place, the First Tribune came to join Vespasian in his box. Lucius Marius had been Vespasian’s closest friend since their earliest days when they took their military training together. After Vespasian, Persephone, and the leadPon Q’tar cleric, Lucius was the highest ranking person in Rustannica. With a smile and a respectful nod for Vespasian, Lucius placed his helmet on the floor and bent over Persephone’s hand to kiss it.

Persephone liked Lucius. Despite his reputation as a rake and a great lover of wine and gaiety, Lucius was good company and a wise counselor. She returned his smile and handed him a goblet of red wine.

At last, Gracchus Junius, the leadPon Q’tar mystic, quietly rose from his chair and approached the emperor, a worried expression on his aged face. Vespasian placed a hand on the mystic’s shoulder.

“What bothers my old tutor?” he asked. “This is to be a happy day!”

Without answering, Gracchus produced a wax tablet diptych from the folds of his robe. The diptych’s covers were made of solid gold held together by two jeweled rings.

Vespasian recognized the unique book immediately. It presence meant only one thing: The Oraculum had word for him. If Gracchus was willing to present an Oraculum diptych to his emperor in public, the news had to be of the greatest urgency.

Taking the book into his hands, Vespasian gave Persephone and Lucius a wary look. Persephone pursed her lips; Lucius raised an eyebrow. Vespasian returned his gaze to his cleric.

“It has been some time since she has spoken,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Highness,” Gracchus said in his gravely voice. “And her newest pronouncements are not reassuring.”

Vespasian looked at the book to make sure that Gracchus’ personal red wax signet seal was still intact. “Is the news bad?” he asked.

Gracchus paused to look out over the restless crowd. In some areas, squabbles had broken out over the best seats, and the widespread drunkenness and debauchery that usually accompanied the games had begun sooner than usual.

“The news is distressing,” he said finally. “Perhaps you should start the games before reading the diptych. The crowd becomes restless.”

Vespasian shook his head. “I will read it now. Let the mob wait a little longer.”

With a snap of his fingers, he called Gaius, the Games Master, to his side. Once a slave and arena combatant himself, the grizzled old man had long ago lost one eye and several fingers to the games before being given his freedom by one of Vespasian’s predecessors. Granting freedom to a slave, criminal, or enemy of the empire who had fought well in the arena was rare, and only the emperor could bestow such an honor. In his twelve years as Rustannica’s ruler, Vespasian had never done so.

Now Vespasian looked up into the Games Master’s remaining brown eye. “Give them the bread,” he ordered. “That should placate them for a while.”

“My liege,” the man answered with a small bow. He turned and quickly walked to one corner of the box. There stood a series of tall golden staffs that could be easily seen from the arena. Mounted on each staff was a three-sided gilded sign that could be swiveled to signal various commands to ever-watchful centurions prowling the arena floor. Selecting one of the signs, Gaius presented one of its faces to the arena floor.