Michael threw himself back into training and decided that despite Granius’s praise, the Praetor must have decided that Michael hadn’t performed as well as he could during his first mission, because after their hour of training, he assigned him new trainers, well, teachers. A young, bureaucrat looking man to go over the multitude of recorded conflicts throughout the world’s history and a grizzled general to help him with working out tactics for fighting with his Contuberium. Her preferred method was to pit him and his unit against more experienced ones.

For an hour after his day, Michael walked through the city with a box of charcoals and papers, working out how to go about drawing maps of each block to honor Octacilia. He spent a few hours every week at a seamstress learning to sew and got in the habit of carrying threads and needles, and made repairs on his shirt and pants when needed. Joran was the only one willing to let him mend his clothing, and Michael was confident it was only so he could practice since the legionnaire never seemed to wear those until his wife had redone the repair.

After that two weeks, Granius changed Michael’s day, assigning him to spend his morning walking the city to help maintain order. The first week was in the company of another legionnaire, who indicated where the areas that needed more supervision were. As peaceful as Novus Roma seemed, it had bad parts, like any other cities.

Each block was subdivided into neighborhoods and each had a building to hold people under arrest while they waited for a magistrate to judge them. Novus Roma had six who spent their days going from one building to the other. Twelve others traveled Cosconius, going from town to town to pass judgment on the criminals there. The building was identified by a balanced scale painted on the door or engraved on the stone above it.

Michael smiled, seemed that some symbols were the same even on other worlds. The legionnaire accompanying him confirmed it was the symbol for justice. Anyone held there would see one of the magistrates to have their crimes evaluated and punishment decided. It wasn’t something Michael had to be concerned about, his instructor told him. It was better to put someone in there and have the magistrate decide to release them than to let a criminal roam the city.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of putting a suspect in there and letting someone else decide their fate, but Michael found he didn’t have to worry about it once he was allowed to patrol alone. When he broke up his first fight, in front of a bar, the inebriated fighters turned on him and after realizing Michael didn’t do more than smile at their punches and kicks, then grabbed them by their shirts and raised them until their feet left the ground, they settled down and slunk to their respective houses.

After a week of letting angry men hit him, and never doing more than picking them up as a show of strength, his patrols became much more peaceful. Michael knew most had moved their arguing and fighting indoors or kept them out of his path, but Granius wasn’t interested in controlling what people did inside their homes unless it disturbed their neighbors.

* * * * *

Michael saw the commotion as one of the merchants noticed him and indicated it. A cart was on the side of the road, and two men were arguing next to it rather forcefully.

“I will not allow you to treat that poor soul like that,” the one in leather armor snapped to the muscular man in simple clothes. On the ground, curled up, was a beastkin. It was trembling and whimpering. It had the head of a bull, the harness to pull the cart, but it lacked the muscles Michael was used to seeing on them. Age, or sickness?

“I’ll treat it however I want,” the farmer replied, “if it can’t do the one thing I keep it around for, then it’s only good for me to work out my anger on.”

“How would you like it if I struck you?” the man in armor said, raising his hand.

Michael caught it. “Don’t,” he stated. Up close the man was plump, but he had muscles too. He tested Michael’s grip but didn’t force the issue. “Now, what seems to be the problem here?” Michael noticed the mace at the man’s belt and considered it a good sign it wasn’t in his hand.

The farmer glared at Michael, noticed the chain mail, and the shield—Michael didn’t carry his sword in the city, he didn’t want the temptation—and ground his teeth. “This man is interfering in my business.”

“If your business,” the man snapped back, “is to hurt some defenseless being, then everyone here should be interfering.” The man looked around accusingly and wasn’t happy at the lack of reaction he got. When he fixed his gaze on Michael, Michael sighed.

“I understand how you feel,” he said, “It might look like us, but it’s just an animal.” Michael didn’t like what he said, but Joran had explained the rules regarding them. Short of bloodshed, their owner could treat them as they wanted, as poorly as they wanted. After all, they were their beasts of burdens. If they hurt them too much, they would suffer by not being able to bring their goods to the market or have them work the fields.

“Just an animal?” the man said, pulling his arm out of Michael’s grip. “All things are sacred to the gods, all things must be respected. Not just those that look like us.” He looked Michael over. “Are you a guard here?”

“legionnaire Michael Rostov, yes, I am a guard.”

“And are you going to do anything about what this man did to that poor creature?”

Michael looked at the bull-man who happened to look up at him. The fear in those eyes forced Michael to look away. “I can’t. He hasn’t broken any laws.”

“Laws? How about common decency? I thought this was one of the good cities. You’re just like the others.” The man looked ready to strike Michael, but he let out an exasperated yell and walked away, entering a tavern.

“Good riddance,” the farmer said. “Clerics,” he spat. “All a bunch of stuck up holi—”

“Shut up,” Michael rounded on him.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything. He’s the one who assaulted me. Go drag him to a cell.”

Michael wanted to grab the man and slam him against the wall. “Go back to your farm.”

“Not before I see you put that man in a cell,” the farmer puffed out his chest. He was more muscular than Michael, probably used to getting his way just with how he looked.

“I didn’t see any violence happen. Just two men arguing,” Michael said.

“I’m telling you that man assaulted me! I’m a citizen, I demand you arrest him.”

Michael looked around to see if anyone wanted to support the man’s accusation, the few watchers left wouldn’t meet his gaze, so that was one thing he didn’t have to worry about.

“Then I’m arresting you too.”

“You can’t do that!”

“That man, that cleric said you hit your beastkin, that’s violence in a public place.”

“It’s just an animal, one that isn’t even worth what I feed it.”

“Sir,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “You have two choices. Go back to your farm, or spend however long it’s going to take for a magistrate to reach your cell-house in the company of the cleric so you can both explain what happened. I have no doubt, you’ll be released then,” Michael cut off the farmer’s protest, “but that’s going to be most of your day lost. Are you going to travel in the night? Can you afford lodging? A stable for your beastkin? Is that what you want?” Michael fixed the man and waited. The farmer’s wealth had to be in the bags his cart contained, grains and flour, seeds for his fields, Michael guessed. If he had a handful of sestus, Michael would be surprised. This society didn’t have a lot of money circulating in it.

The farmer didn’t so much deflate as reign in his anger. He pulled the beastkin up, made sure the harness was properly secured, and with a hateful glare at Michael prodded the bull-man forward. Michael watched until they turned into the avenue toward the eastern gate.

Michael let out a handful of breaths to calm himself. These were the few times he hated this job. When he had to let someone he thought was wrong go. By the time he trusted himself to be able to move again, no one was left watching. Instead of returning to his patrol, Michael headed to the tavern.

He found the cleric seated at a table on the other side of the room, taking a long swallow from his tankard, with an empty one on the table. “Can I sit?”

“Why?” the cleric asked sourly. “Are you going to put me in iron because I’m enjoying my drink?”

“No. I thought you could use some company after that.”

The cleric raised his hazel eyes to him. “And you think your company is what I’d want?”

Michael sat. “I didn’t enjoy that,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because he didn’t break any laws, and if you’d have struck him, you would have.” A harried server placed a tankard before Michael before retrieving the empty one. “I’m Michael.” He didn’t touch it, he wouldn’t get drunk on one, with his endurance he might not be able to get drunk on all the alcohol in the tavern, but it felt wrong to drink while he was on duty.

The cleric watched him, taking another swallow. “Donovan of Asangria.” He gave Michael a nod.

“Which god do you follow?”

Donovan considered his question through another swallow, then picked a medallion from the five he had around his left wrist and showed it to him. A shield and mace. Michael had seen multiple legionnaires wearing one like it.

“Sotalmal,” Donovan said.

“Protection?” Michael asked, guessing based on the symbol.

“Of the weak and defenseless. Don’t you know of him? He’s prevalent among guards. Not that many of them follow his edicts,” Donovan said in disgust before taking another swallow.

“I’m not a believer,” Michael said, and Donovan choked on his drink.

“You do not believe in the gods?” he asked once he could breathe.

“I know they’re real, I know a cleric of Dhomis, he saved my life, but I just…” Michael trailed off, trying to find the words. “I just can’t connect to them, I guess. I know they’re there, but they still don’t feel real.”

Donovan set his tankard down. “You don’t have faith that one of them will look down on you and offer you the guidance you need.”

“Yeah,” Michael said after thinking it over, “That sounds right.”

Donovan nodded. “I have been there. Before Sotalmal I belonged to a different order and I was forced to stand by and watch atrocities being committed. When I asked the man in charge of our order why we allowed those soldiers to hurt the innocent, why we weren’t using our holy position to protect them, he told me that our duty was to heal, not protect. I asked G—that god afterward for an answer, and he didn’t provide one. My faith was tested then.”

He drank and remained silent.

“What restored your faith?” Michael asked.

Donovan shook his head. “That’s what I understood later, it wasn’t my faith in the gods I’d lost. It was faith in the men who claim to speak for them. Those churches and temples. Some do good work, but others simply exist to exist, not to help. And those aren’t only dedicated to the dark gods.” He smirked and shook his head.

“I find it easier to have faith in the law, in order.”

“But is it?” Donovan asked.

“Of course. The law is set to keep order. People follow it and society keeps going in peace.”

“And yet, you didn’t like letting that man hurt his beast, but your law says he’s allowed to.”

Michael’s lips tightened. He couldn’t come up with a rebuttal for Donovan, and it bothered him.

“Will you drink that?” the cleric asked. Michael shook his head and Donovan took his tankard. “I don’t know if laws are always just.”

“Are the gods?” Michael asked defiantly.

“Is protecting the weak just?”

“Is demanding obedience?” Michael countered.

“You met a cleric of Elmigal? Nasty people. I think we need to decide ourselves what is and isn’t just, and we need to also decide what we will do about it. I chose that protecting the weak was just and Sotalmal noticed me. I will continue to do so until I decide he’s wrong. What I won’t do anymore is let others tell me what is and isn’t just.”

Michael stood, making fists to keep his hands from shaking. “I need to get back to my rounds, thank you for the conversation, Cleric Donovan, and I’d appreciate it if you avoided enforcing your views of justice in this city.”

“You need not worry, Michael, I will drink my anger away and then leave. This city isn’t what I’d hoped for.” The cleric raised the tankard to Michael and took a long swallow.

Michael left, fought against running. That damned icon was beginning to appear, and he tried to force it away. Laws were just. Order was a good thing. Fuck, what if this was Carpenter again? He found an alley, then a smaller one. No, this was a good place. He was helping in keeping it safe. The people here were better for him being here, for the laws being in place.

Why couldn’t he stop the doubt?

He punched the stone wall and focused on the pain. Stuck it again, causing some of the stone to flake off. He struck it again and again. Using the pain to push the doubts away.

When he was able to step out of the alley, he’d lost a tenth of his hit points and made a small dent in the stone wall, but he’d found a way to keep the panic at bay. Now he just needed to find a way to do it the next time without destroying anything.