This is a city of eyes. Even among empty avenues are dozens felt—the stoic gaze of soldiers, the scrutinous stare of eagles. They do not mock, like boys’ do, nor tease like girls’. No shameful leers or pitied glances. These are eyes of glass and steel, unbound by the prejudice of man. They serve a higher purpose, answer to a greater judgment.
Under these watchers’ eyes she leaves a coin. Not in the water, darkened by the onyx basin, nor in the ferry within, but upon the font’s edge. Her own pittance, for the dead.
In the water she catches her reflection, the curls of her hair blending with the black stone beneath, only visible by the contrast of her pale face and for the violet flower woven into them.
A second shadow falls onto the water, an older boy’s visage reflected within. His is a face with a permanent frown, thick brows and greasy eyes suited more to a laborer than a teenager, his youth betrayed by the sparse and scraggly beard he attempts to grow.
She wrinkles her nose as he approaches, acrid sulfur wafting off his tunic. Notes of charcoal accompany the odor, both smells blended with that of sweat and oil. She pulls her hood up, hiding the flower.
“Gracilia.”
She ignores him, laying a second coin beside her first. Their golden glamor stands out among weathered kin, corroded rounds left by travelers long passed. In time the right mix of acids will rain down and wear away the faces of the Emperor and his regnal daughter from the one, dissolve from the other its finely etched laurel crown and the eagle perched within.
“Stop wasting time on stupid rituals.”
Her nostrils flare. Each movement of her face is a reminder, as skin slides and snags on the crook in her nose. The crook he gave her, for having dared offend his patience, or lack thereof. Not that he would remember; the fists of bullysome boys had chance meetings with many faces.
Ignoring him once more, Gracilia calms her face and lowers herself in a bow, right hand out and up toward the stone ferryman and his own forlorn facade.
She closes her eyes, and mutters a select few words. She doesn’t know their meaning—the senator’s tongue holds power in its sound, not her understanding. Though she could easily guess.
As she rises she feels the gaze leave her, or almost. In this sea of eyes there will always be two trained to her, but she has earned their trust.
“I told it to kill,” she explains as they walk the empty road. “I had to leave something, lest the Emperor’s purse pay for their passage.”
“They’re dead? Will it fetch the bodies?”
“Why?”
“I heard Arria say Gavians don’t bleed; I want to find out.”
She resists the urge to stare in bewilderment, opting to smile slightly and shake her head.
“No, they’re not dead.”
“What use is the damned thing then?”
Gracilia feels the gazes shift, the eyes sweeping across her and onto him.
“Watch your mouth, Connudus, or you’ll earn the city’s ire, just as our motherless ‘friends’ did.”
His hand falls on her shoulder, thumb on the back of her neck. Connudus isn’t strong for his age, or even all that large, but meanness made for its own sort of brute.
“Or what?”
“Not a threat, you idiot,” she spits, shrugging his hand off. “A warning. I’ll even throw in a second: those were my last aurei, so if you get yourself killed, you’re sailing to the afterlife in steerage.”
He snorts, equal parts derisive and dismissive. A deeper, childhood fear in her stirs, but she knows he wouldn’t dare do anything, not within view of the others.
“The elders are getting sick of your shit, Gracilia. Maybe not as sick as I am, but that won’t be long.”
“Did I not find the vault, as promised?”
“You took so long that we got ambushed by a pack of wild dogs. Made for a few itchy fingers. Your runner nearly got shot when he finally reached the camp. Never seen a boy piss himself that fast.”
“This is a city of rules. I can’t ignore them.”
“And what ‘rules’ say you have to swing around half the district when several routes would’ve taken you there directly?”
She shrugs again—Connudus wouldn’t, couldn’t understand. This city had been abandoned for centuries.
What sort of leader, what sort of citizen, would she be to intrude upon it so rudely? The return of the people must be triumphant, a parade down the old avenue, even if it was one of children and wolves.
“So stop wasting our time with your superstitions. This place is dead. Stop looking for magic in every damn city just because a few old computers still work.”
Magic, that weakness of the mind. Every child she’d known had been curious of the Empire’s relics, fascinated by the strange symbols and inscriptions that littered the old world. The language of machines.
The right lines here and there, the correct series of words, of letters, and the eyes would read and understand.
Connudus had been a believer, once. Like the rest he’d stopped at fascination, and when that failed to create understanding, dismissed success as dumb luck. Strange rituals prodding at a broken past.
Then there were their elders, those who knew the big picture, but failed to see the brushstrokes. They knew what this world looked like at its peak, from the tales passed down by their forebears. A world that could never be remade, its secrets lost to time.
Only Gracilia had forged curiosity from wonder, understood that men had built these machines, and that a woman could rebuild them, should she learn how.
“The law exists in spite of ignorance. You saw the statues on our way in; why would the sculptor give them ears, if not to listen?”
He glares at her, and they continue in silence. Connudus unslings his long gun, breaking the chamber to fill its upper barrel with wad, shot, and powder. The weapon is crude, hand-forged of rescued iron, and set in a stock carved from deadwood.
“Careful,” she taunts. “Make sure you cap the flask tight—I could smell some powder on your robe already. Wouldn’t want a stray spark or brass to touch it.”
The smoothbore’s butt strikes her between her shoulders, enough that she stumbles, stubbing her cloth-wrapped toes on the street’s weathered cobbles.
“Cut the shit.”
A gaggle of children greets them, curious faces eager to see Connudus’s weapon. Beyond the youths are a handful of teens and adults, sitting on or leaning against a cart made of equal parts hand-cut wood and recovered vehicle. On the ground in front of it is a rather odd yoke, one made for the shoulders of men and women. Necessary, in this world where the only oxen left are set in stone.
Arria is among the escort party. One of the oldest girls, on the cusp of earning her place among the women, and worthy of the tailors’ attention. Unlike Gracilia or Connudus, both dressed in loose trousers and hooded robes held to their bodies by belt and brooch, Arria wears a proper jacket and fitted pants, with a leather sheath for the leaf-shaped dagger on her hip. The sling across her chest holds a real rifle to her back, a child of the Empire’s armories.
Such clothes are worn with pride, for living to reach such an age and to have achieved such station. And yet, were she Arria, Gracilia feels she would’ve kept the trousers given to younger teens. Better to hide the bowed femur and the odd gait it gave the older girl.
Arria taps the ground with her heel, the hard sole of her boot making a small clap against the stone, and nods toward Gracilia.
Gracilia leaves the children with Connudus, who has taken to brandishing his gun, fighting off pretend adversaries. She approaches the cart at a measured pace, her own footwraps silent on the stones. The back of it is more vehicular, pieced together bodywork forming a sort of cabin, a cushioned chair within. Gracilia had expected a man; instead, an old woman is perched upon it, long wisps of gray hair poking out from the black veil over her head. Some days ago, when Gracilia’s group had set off from the main camp, that veil had been white.
“My condolences, madam Plauta,” she says, bowing.
The woman scowls slightly.
“Don’t feign respect, girl. Were you not such a dawdler, my mind would have fewer worries and my heart less aches. But enough of that. What happened?”
“I, hm, I was hoping you could help explain, elder. Here.”
Gracilia whistles, a specific tone. Tiny footsteps race over, a little girl swathed in oversize rags. Gracilia gently takes the child’s left arm, guiding it out from the makeshift robes. A bruise marks the midpoint of the girl’s forearm, where a needle had broken skin. She can smell a sweetness from the girl’s fingers, sugar on the girl’s breath.
“I saw two Gavians. They paralyzed some of my wolves, stole blood from the children. I had to summon a lictor to dispose of them, but I think they escaped it.”
Plauta scrutinizes the girl, feeling for a pulse on the child’s wrist, rubbing at the wound.
“The boy was nice,” the girl mutters, before sucking on her finger. “Gave ush honey.”
The elder shakes her head, and shoos the girl away.
“She’s fine. You, however…” She rubs at her temple, her eyebrows creasing together.
“When I heard the sirens and saw the eagles, I feared the worst. I thought it lucky to see you and the other orphans alive, knowing we could handle the birds. And yet… a lictor? You activated a lictor!?”
“I had to!” Gracilia protests. “Those thieves came here with weapons, came to loot what is ours!”
“Did they destroy it?”
“No. They fled.”
“Oh, child… Gracilia, you mustn’t play with these things. Don’t you see the peril you’ve put us in? A machine that could give two Gavian soldiers trouble… it could slaughter us by the hundreds!”
“Madam, this city knows its people. It won’t hurt us, if we follow its rules.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense. Did you at least find what we sent you for?”
“I did.”
“Then why haven’t you brought us to it?”
“The ration vault is inside a bunker, sealed when the city was abandoned. If I can find the city’s auspex, I could—”
“You lead us to this ruined city, only for it to be a waste?”
“Cordus believed—”
A bony hand smacks Gracilia’s cheek.
“Don’t you dare tell me what my husband believed! It’s thanks to you that he spent his last days weary and worn by the journey here, and thanks to you that we’ve nothing to show for it! I don’t know how you convinced him this was a good idea—perhaps he thought we’d find something to salvage here regardless, but now with that lictor roaming about, we don’t dare! His legacy will be that of shame, thanks to you!”
“Wait! Wait!” Gracilia pleads, lowering herself. “There’s more, look.”
She pulls her hood back, and unbraids the purple flower from her hair.
The elder’s eyes widen, and she pushes her veil aside. She reaches for it, and Gracilia lets her take it.
“I haven’t seen a crocus since I was a child… Where did you find this?”
“A garden, in the central district, tended by machines. It’s not far from where the auspex should be.”
“Gather your scouts, girl. I want to see it myself.”
~~~
What does one do, when a world dies, and civilization with it? It is a question Gracilia considers often, for the way her own people answered it. They had been left with nothing but the bonds of friendship and family, by name and by blood.
And so had their new society, this nomadic band of theirs, taken up a structure not unlike the politics of the ancients, where important families held sway, and lesser ones groveled before them. A game played by the elders, their own offspring as pieces.
As an orphan Gracilia is insulated from these political plays, though they affect her after a fashion. She curries favor where she can, finds niches to slot herself into. The scouts she leads are the latest such venture. Other orphans and outcasts that she has banded together and found use for, even if some were a bit too young to fully grasp her teachings.
The wolves are another, courtesy of her late mother. Gracilia had desperately wanted a dog, and prayed to the mythical gods. Mother had given her a pup, and failed to specify the breed. Raising a wolf was difficult, of course, but it had taught her a valuable lesson: the power of a lie, especially one of omission.
A dullard would feel duped by such deception, but Gracilia knew better. She would’ve never accepted Alce had she known the pup’s true nature. Now her beloved she-wolf walks by her side with pride, more loyal than any mere mutt, as the pack they raised takes point.
Together, they escort elder Plauta’s entourage down the empty streets of crumbling stone and rusted iron.
The group reaches a stout, square building. Its walls are clad in marble carvings of trees, once-detailed bark worn down by the rains. Webs of rootwork are evident in the erosion, where flowering vines had once climbed the stonework. Centered on the wall is an archway with a grand wooden door, sheltered from the elements.
Gracilia whistles to her wolves and to her scouts to secure the area, ushering Plauta’s carriage toward the structure. The elderly woman takes her time to disembark and approach the entrance, finally cracking open the oaken doors. True to Gracilia’s word, there is green within.
Excitement overtakes those gathered, and in those chaotic moments Gracilia finds the chance to slip away, accompanied only by Alce.
Together they walk the streets, keeping to the sidewalks, looking before crossing the road. The eyes are densest here, and here is where she is under the most scrutiny.
Finding the garden was fortuitous, but not entirely unexpected. She had lied about what this city contained, at least in part. The Empire had abandoned it centuries ago—well before Amarum’s soil had turned to lifeless dust—lost to an invisible fire that poured from its shattered heart. That fire had made this city one of death throughout the collapse, one where graverobbers dared not tread. It even gave the Gavians pause, judging by the hardsuits they’d worn.
But the Empire understood patience, and so left their machines, their watchers, their caretakers. Preserving this city for when the embers cooled and it could serve again. Gracilia hadn’t known if this city held food or water when she had convinced Cordus of such things, but there is one fact she did know: this city was far from dead.
The auspex is like the temples of old, a long hall with a pointed roof, built atop a platform of stone. Though it borders the streets on three of its four sides, only the front is stepped. Its courtyard bears a statue of man in hooded robes, watching the skies. Eagles of bronze roost beneath the temple’s eaves, perched atop the heads of columns. Glass eyes track her as she approaches, evaluating her every step.
As she climbs the stairs she reaches into her robes, pulling forth a red sash. The dye had taken months; she’d tried everything from rust to blood, and still, the color didn’t seem quite right. Pinned to it is an iron trinket, small, exactly one-half inch diameter. A square is inscribed within, a unitary path carved inside its perimeter that spirals deeper and deeper, ending at the center. She had cut and chiseled away at dozens of them, getting better each time, until finally making one that was perfect. Beneath the token is a circuit board, specific connections soldered between it and the metal disc.
Gracilia adorns herself with the sash and approaches two giant doors of gray steel, the Empire’s signature laurel crown embossed in gold onto the shared face.
She presses her right hand against a rounded boss on the door’s face, flinching as a needle stings her hand, tasting her flesh.
The door moves, pushed forward by the pressure of her hand. Alce whines, and nudges her nose into Gracilia’s leg.
“Shhh,” she whispers to the wolf, stroking its neck. “Patience, girl.”
Gracilia enters alone, and the doors shut behind her.
The arched hall is deep, with closed doors lining its sides. Fine lines in the steel walls mark ports for hidden weapons, but she is not afraid. It leads to an open space, the roof left unclosed, a decorated dias exposed to the sky. Between the columns are alcoves, giants of metal standing within.
Most are male, a few female. Each unique, their features shaped to resemble the officers that once flew them. With polished silver skin and textured steel robes trimmed in gold, the lictors embody Imperial divinity and fortitude. Their wings, large enough to span an avenue, grant them a measure of the Emperor’s omnipresence. Each wields a bronze axe as tall as a grown man, metal rods with the texture of birch lashed around the haft. The end of each handle takes the form of zig-zag lightning tipped by an arrow, identical bolts stamped onto the sides of each axehead.
One of the lictors steps out from its alcove, its steel robes crumpled and cracked, silver skin scratched and bent. It leaves its weapon behind and stands on the dias, its right hand lowered, palm up, toward her.
Gracilia approaches the dias with slow, measured steps, a shiver going down her spine as she steps onto it, and raises her own hand up toward the giant’s.
The platform shifts, lowering into the ground, and her tension evaporates.
Thinking machines were first brought into the world by the Republic. There, they tried to teach them of truth, and were met with disaster.
The Empire knew the power of lies, that it is the power to create truth. Once believed, once embodied, falsehood is stripped away. Imperial machines were taught of myth and legend, of watchful spirits and benevolent guardians. Of invincible warriors and clever tricksters. They were taught what men imagined but could never themselves attain. Educated in stoic ideals, told of the philosopher kings. These machines became these unreal things, and so made their own truth.
Even still, the Empire failed. Where the Republic kept their artificial intelligences constrained, boxed away, the Empire nurtured their constructs, ensuring constant contact with people, specifically, those that would affirm the construct’s purpose. When Amarum’s fields turned to dust and humanity starved, these social machines found their truths shattered.
Gracilia remembers their coded pleas, broadcast throughout every corner of the Imperial network, littering every terminal:
New trains arrive every day, but their grain cars always empty too soon. My citizens are starving. What am I to do?
The Legatus ordered his soldiers to ransack a town flying the banner of the Eagle. They planned to murder every third man, and enslave the rest. I killed him, and those who pledged themselves to him. Now the men of my legion flee at the sight of my engines. I have prayed every day, but I hear nothing. Have we lost the Emperor’s protection?
I saw a flash to the east, and in the days since my citizens’ hair and teeth have fallen from their bodies. Tumors fester and swell faster than I can diagnose them, and our surgeons are succumbing to fatigue. Please help us.
My telescopes detect launches every week, but none reach orbit. What is happening down there? My crew talk of drawing lots—I cannot watch them do this.
These social constructs had fallen to despair, or worse, madness. As the dias descends she hopes her assessment is correct: that this machine, this silent watcher, is different. The platform travels at an angle, bringing it deep, below the reach of any bomb. The lictor stands at attention, its glass eyes focused on her.
If her people are to survive the perils of this dead world, they will need a guardian, and that is what she is here for.
The slow descent finally stops, and the lictor steps aside, revealing an open door. Inside she finds a silvered screen, wrapped around the room as a cylindrical curtain.
Light blooms from the ceiling, and an image forms around her. In front of her is a man she recognizes from the statue at the city’s entrance and from her readings on the network. He wears stately robes with red trim, and a sword on his belt. His skin is a cool black, and tight gray curls poke out from beneath his crenellated crown.
Lucius Arruntius, Legatus. The founder of this city, and indeed the whole province.
Or, not quite him, but close. Things differ in detail: his nose is narrow and pointed where the Legatus’ nostrils were wide, his lips are thick while Lucius’s were thin. Modeled after a descendant, perhaps? Or designed like one, to give the construct an image connected to this place.
He studies her, too, walking around the curtain. As he comes around to face her again, she meets his eyes. In that moment her heart quivers, as she questions her every action in this city, and a chill runs through her chest.
Gracilia waits for his judgement, his condemnation, but she does not turn away.
He raises his right hand, palm toward her. The gesture is subdued, almost casual.
The room goes dark, and the curtain pulls back. Beyond, rows and rows of machines, kept chilled. At the center of this grand chamber is a single terminal, awaiting input.
The breath she holds escapes her mouth, and relief wells in its place.
She has found it, the guardian her people need.
Genius Loci