There was a large crowd outside the church that morning. Ptolemy went every day but most others weren’t so disciplined. His own wife only went every other day, and only then because of Ptolemy’s incessant concern. Today though, it was the Day of Saint Aros, who had banished the evil spirits to the dark corners of the world. There would be a procession around the church, a play depicting the tribulations of Saint Aros, and bread and wine.

“Which do you think attracts the most people, Ptolemy, the procession, the play, the bread or the wine” said Margaret, looking over to her husband.

“I don’t know dear. Please, not another…”

“Well from the look of them, I’d say, the procession so that they can marvel at the rich artisanship which the church can afford, the play so that they can vicariously live the life of a saint, the bread because they cannot afford food and the wine because they want to forget the fact.” She said.

“There’s no reason to your cynicism. The people are more pious than you give them credit for.” Said Ptolemy.

“Who wants the pain of religion when they can just get by?”

He made his way through the stream of people entering the church by the narrow doorway. He passed between the ancient pillars which were inscribed floor-to-roof with hieroglyphs telling the many stories of the Holy Book.

Everyone was required to leave their shoes at the entrance.

“Please wipe your feet before you enter.” Said a priest dully at the entrance to the church hall. “Remember the words of Saint Soro: To keep oneself clean is to keep one’s own spirit clean.”

The dirty peasants that entered wiped their bare feet on the mat provided at the entrance as best they could. Ptolemy saw the priest sigh as one peasant gave each foot a single wipe, then continued in with wet mud still between his toes and feet still smeared with dirt, leaving a trail behind him as he walked on the marble floor.

Ptolemy and his wife took a seat in the middle. Before long the entire hall had been filled, with people packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the benches and standing around the edges of the room.

The bishop hobbled to the center of the stage, leaning heavily on his long staff. His tall hat swayed from side to side as he moved, bells and copper symbols jingling and dangling.

Ptolemy found a seat on one of the benches with enough room for both him and his wife. It was too late to move when he realised that the person sitting in front was so tall that he completely blocked Ptolemy’s view of the chantry. So he bowed his head, closed his eyes and listened.

“It is said that God commanded Saint Aros to drive Drasil the Black Demon beyond the Western sea, to drive Ygran the Red into the heart of the mountains in the East, and to drive Rasson the White over the endless sand dunes in the South, all never to return. As the death of Aros’ son allowed him to hear God, so the death of the Consul must open our ears to His voice; Destroy the Infidel, He is saying, banish the Heretic. Slaughter the Barbarian. As Aros scattered the Demons across the face of the world, scatter the unbelievers and take their treasures and build My Kingdom on Earth, build the Kingdom of God.”

Then after the sermon, the Priest opened the thick old tome on the ornate bookstand in the center of the stage and read from the Holy book in the Old Tongue. As the priest sang each passage, Ptolemy thought that it was such a beautiful sounding language, he could understand why God chose to have his Word transcribed in that language rather than in the crude Common Tongue.

Then the Bishop introduced the actors in the play by name.

“Here” he said, “We have Xenon Dychas who will be playing Saint Aros.”

The actor gave a solemn bow.

“And this” said the Bishop, “Is Naro Myconid who is playing Arisor son of Aros.”

--

“We will not be ruled by a king! Down with the tyrant” the crowd chanted.

The power of their combined shoving against his shield was more than Ptolemy could have expected from the grim crowd of starved, weary citizens. He shoved back, pushing one of them to the ground. None of the others noticed and his screams were drowned out by the angry chant of the crowd as they trampled his body.

“Down with the tyrant!”

Suddenly a club flew at him, striking the side of his head. Ptolemy gasped. The crowd took advantage of his disorientation to push him over. He braced himself for the crowd to trample over him, unable to move, but a spear flew into the leg of one of the citizens in the crowd. Their pause gave enough time for another soldier to plug the gap in the shieldwall. As Ptolemy regained his senses, the sun that had been blinding him was blocked by a towering figure.

“You alright, Commander?” he said. Ptolemy recognised it as Menelaus, one of the soldiers under his command who he had recently made acquaintance with in the tavern.

“Yeah… fine… just…”

“Maybe you’re getting a bit old for front line duty?” He chuckled.

“Fuck you.”

Menelaus offered a hand and helped Ptolemy to his feet.

“You threw the spear?” Ptolemy asked.

“Yeah.” Menelaus said.

“I said no bloodshed, didn’t I?”

“They hit you with a club!”

“Then hit them back… with a shield. No bloodshed.”

Ptolemy put his hand on Menelaus’ shoulder and turned him around to face a building; white-marble built, ancient and revered.

“The Senate.” Ptolemy said, “That is what we are guarding. The Senate, where the Senators rule on behalf of the people.”

Ptolemy saw another familiar face, half behind one of great marble pillars at the front of the Senate building. It was mischievous and scheming; a face belonging to none other than Alexander Orses, smiling at Ptolemy and beckoning him over.

“Excuse me Menelaus. I have business I must attend to.”

Ptolemy approached Alexander. “What is it? Be quick about it.”

“I see they’re giving you trouble. A motley bunch of penny snatchers and guttersnipes if I ever saw one. And those citizens seem to be in a bit of a row too.”

“Yes, yes very good. Why are you here?”

“I… have need of you. I’m in debt to the Daratines and they’ve come knocking. I’ve no way to repay them at the moment – don’t worry, I’m working on it – but right now I have guard duty at the Palatinate Gate. I find myself in need of a trusted co-conspirator. Doesn’t hurt if they’re respectable and able to deliver a mean punch if things go sour. Uh… I need you to talk to their leader. Sort this out for me, eh? Tell them I can give them their money within the month. Guaranteed.”

“Well I myself have duty right now if you haven’t noticed. No. I cannot.”

“Need I remind you of when I bailed your ass? You think it was a cakewalk for me? You think I didn’t make sacrifices?”

“Get lost.”

Alexander was taken aback. “I-I’m beginning to recall… a soldier who failed to show for duty the other day. Perhaps the Captain would be interested to know that it was because he was in a drunken stupor at a tavern. How unprofessional! Imagine what the Captain would have to say to that.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“I wouldn’t like to, no, but sometimes a man must do something whether he would like to or no.” Alexander smiled.

Ptolemy spoke gruffly, trying to soften the anger in his voice, “As you say, but you owe me one.”

“I owe you nothing – I still kept your secret. I convinced the others to keep quiet, now you’re just paying your debt in kind.”

Ptolemy stomped back toward his soldiers.

“Hold the line men, you hear me? Hold. This. Line. But no bloodshed.”

--

Narses Daratine was a large man. When Ptolemy entered his house, he saw the man slowly lifting a pipe to his lips, puffing, lowering the pipe and blowing out. He was surrounded by beautiful slave women – locals, Westerners, even one from the far east with a strange reddish skin Ptolemy had never seen the likes of in his life. Standing still by the side of Narses’ chair was a hulking man dressed in leather armour and holding the pommel of his sword that was sheathed at his hip.

“Greetings, Narses,” said Ptolemy.

“What brings a Commander of the City Guard to my presence? Not another misguided dogooder hoping to falsely accuse me of some crime I hope.”

“No, nothing of the sort. I am here on behalf of Alexander Orses…”

The hulk’s eyes widened. Narses drew a sudden breath of air.

“Alexander Orses? Speak not of that double-dealing little thieving bastard!” Screamed Narses.

“…here to tell you that Alexander will have your money to you within the month.”

“…Is that so?”

“By his own word.”

“The least trustworthy word in the city.”

The hulk stepped forward and Narses began to grin. It sent a shiver down Ptolemy’s spine. He knew things were about to get ugly.

“It is my mind that we need some form of… assurance,” said Narses, “Perhaps a hostage?”

“What, me? Do you really think he gives a shit about what happens to me, or anyone else for that matter? A hostage is not what you need.”

“I need a guarantee, Commander.”

“Then you have mine. Personally. If he doesn’t pay, well, I’m Commander of the City Guard. Understand?”

Narses thought about it and began to slowly nod.

“Yes… yes, I agree.”

“Very well.”

Ptolemy turned and left the house.