The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)

LATE AFTERNOON IS PAINTING THE treetops as my carriage rattles its way along the road, the clattering of hooves accompanying it echoing off the surrounding hills. I gaze out the window, fiddling with my toga. It’s pristine white, no stripe to indicate status, as appropriate for the festival.

I’m alone in the carriage, and have been since we left Villa Telimus almost a half hour ago. It’s a horse-drawn one today, and I’m also flanked by a half dozen riders. All Septimii. All here to ensure that brigands don’t cause me any trouble as I travel first to Villa Claudius, and then to Caten itself.

I’ve never felt so uncomfortably like a true citizen.

“We’re here, Master Vis.” Torvus, the rough-looking head of my protective entourage, sees me peering ahead. I’ve already spotted the mansion towering amid the surrounding fields. Newer and more ostentatious than Villa Telimus, it sprawls around a long pool at the front. Columns upon columns of Will-cut white stone line the portico, while the flowering gardens are ringed by hedges and poplar, immaculately kept and perfectly symmetrical. Candles adorn the balconies, ready to light at dusk in keeping with the holiday.

The only person in view is a young woman, seated on a low wall as she watches our approach. She’s wearing a fashionable blue silk tunic with a many-layered white mantle draped across her shoulders; raven-black hair cascades over it, wisps catching rays of the dipping sun behind her. The driver swings down as the carriage stops, opening the door for her. She appraises him, then stands smoothly and allows him to assist her in.

“You must be Vis.” Demure, though there’s no hesitation in the introduction. “I’m Aequa Claudius.” She offers her hand, palm down, and I clasp it briefly to complete the formal greeting as she seats herself opposite.

“A pleasure.” The door’s already shut and we’re pulling away again. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me this evening.”

There’s more than a hint of wry humour to her expression. “Of course.”

“Are you looking forward to the fighting?”

“The naumachia?” She looks as if she’s just tasted something bitter. “No. Not… not particularly.” Just enough of an apology in the words to not be impolite. It’s as expected. Like most patricians, she feels that attending this sort of event is beneath her.

“Ah.” I pretend to be disappointed, then lean forward, letting eagerness creep into my tone. The common-birth orphan, talking about an event I could never have dreamed of seeing a few months ago. “I’ve just… never been to the Catenan Arena. I’m interested in the chariots and gladiators too, of course, but when I heard this was on, I knew I had to get there somehow. But if you would prefer to find your own entertainment once we reach Caten, I’ll understand.”

She examines me, and though she makes some attempt to conceal it, she’s bored by what she sees. That’s good. I need her to underestimate me today, to not care about my whereabouts when the time comes.

“No,” she says eventually, reluctantly. “My father would be displeased, if he heard.”

We’re already leaving Villa Claudius behind, our pace increasing as the Will-built road south straightens and widens. There are traces of Advenius’s features in Aequa, though surprisingly few that mar her looks. I accept her response affably. It was worth trying.

The rhythmic clopping of hooves against stone and the creaking of the carriage are the only sounds for a few seconds.

“So. Tell me about the Academy,” I say before the silence grows awkward. “Your father said you were in Class Five?”

“Four,” Aequa corrects me. “I broke my arm riding about a week before the entrance exam, so they started me in Six. But I’ve worked my way up.”

“Was that hard to do?”

She almost chokes. “Two promotions in six months? Nobody else has done it.”

I can’t help myself. “But is it hard?”

She frowns this time. Sees that I’m wheedling, but not charmed by it in the slightest. “Yes.”

I grin cheerfully at her, determined to maintain the genial, relaxed demeanour for the duration of the trip. Partly because I can tell it bothers her, and I’m under no illusion as to why she’s really here. And partly because she seems the type to underestimate anyone who’s outwardly friendly. “Very impressive, then.”

Her exasperated look almost makes me laugh.

“I imagine they’ll start you in Seven, so you’ll get to experience it for yourself soon enough.” The thought seems to make her feel a little better. She relaxes as she considers me. “How long has Magnus Telimus been preparing you for the Academy?”

“About a month?”

She smiles dubiously. “How long, really?” An eye roll as I look at her blankly. “It’s a nice story—a gifted war orphan, discovered by chance, taken in by a Magnus and elevated straight to the Catenan Academy. But my father said he could tell that Magnus Telimus has been preparing you for a while.”

I cough a surprised chuckle. “I’m flattered. But I met Ulciscor for the first time a month ago.”

She sighs, not surprised and not believing me. “Well. In any case, this trip is a good opportunity for us to learn each other’s capabilities, given that we’ll be training together for the next few weeks.” Aequa makes no attempt to hide her hesitancy at the prospect. Her unblinking eyes are a startling shade of blue as they meet mine. Almost violet. “Any objections?”

“Not at all.” She’s not one for pleasantries, that much is evident.

“Then I’ll start.”

The next hour consists largely of Aequa throwing problems at me, and my occasional and half-hearted returning of the favour, as the countryside rolls swiftly by. I don’t object. None of her questions are particularly taxing; in fact, they’re almost laughable after having endured Lanistia’s near-abusive interrogations. I make sure to answer correctly—I’m not trying to drive Aequa away—but I don’t try to impress her with any sense of ease or alacrity, either. No benefit to her seeing me as a potential rival.

It’s an easy enough ruse, with my mind largely on what’s ahead now. How will Sedotia even find me, once we arrive? I have no way of contacting her, no way to signal to her where I am. And there will be a hundred thousand people in the Catenan Arena watching the naumachia. A hundred thousand.

I’ve already been chewing over the problem for weeks, and the extra hour doesn’t help. At least, despite my distracted state, I notice the superciliousness of Aequa’s interrogation is starting to abate. I’m better educated than she anticipated.

The road has become crowded over the past twenty minutes, one long caravan of pilgrims. The late afternoon light outside is just giving way to a true gold when we crest a rise, and the immense, imposing breadth of Caten appears up ahead.

I trail off mid-answer as I catch the sight. My first impression of the city, brief though it was, has lingered, and I’ve since wondered whether my memory had been exaggerating its ugly, intimidating grandeur. Hoped, really. We’re approaching from the north-east. The horizon has resolved into an ocean of buildings and roads and towers and people scurrying everywhere, all silhouetted against the fading orange burn of sunset.

My recollection of Caten is entirely accurate.

“You haven’t been here before?” Aequa’s following my gaze. There are coloured lights flickering to life around the outside of some of the taller structures, special lanterns that stain the façades in dramatic, festive hues. As the carriage starts its descent along the road, I catch a glimpse of the bay beyond, reflecting the gentle glow of dusk. It’s dotted with ships, some larger ones lit up as gaudily as the buildings.

“Only briefly.”

“It’s the greatest city ever built.” There’s no irony to Aequa’s voice, no sense that she’s anything but genuine in her assessment.

“What about Tolverium? Or Sena Corlisis?” I should let it go, but a part of me is on the defensive at the mere sight of this place.

“You mean their ruins?”

“But in their day,” I press. Stubborn. “Tolverium was twice Caten’s size. And even fifty years on, we’re still finding new innovations in Sena Corlisis.”

“You can’t compare cities from before the Cataclysm to now. We don’t know anywhere near enough about them.” Aequa’s put out that I’m not just agreeing with her, as most everyone else here would. Describing Caten as “the greatest city” is supposed to be small talk. Not even rhetoric. Like describing the clear sky as blue.

“I agree.”

Aequa glowers, but gestures to show she can’t be bothered pursuing the matter.

The carriage rolls on, and I return my inspection to the world outside. We’ve left the open fields, moving downhill and looking out over wooden buildings that are built low enough to the ground that we can see over their flat-topped roofs. This outer district of Caten is brightly lit, candles in every doorway, but away from the main road we’re travelling, I can see ramshackle structures as high as three stories that look dangerously close to toppling. Everything’s jammed together here, dirty, and the smell that wafts in the window is an assault.

It doesn’t seem to bother the revellers, though. The streets are packed; I can hear Septimus Torvus yelling at the people ahead to clear the way.

“This is Esquilae District. Octavii, mostly.” Aequa’s over her pique, drawing my attention to an enormous statue ahead. “There’s not much here, apart from Sere.”

I recognise the Catenan goddess of spring and fertility easily enough. A naked woman with a wistful expression, hand outstretched as she gazes into the distance. The statue’s twenty feet tall, marble and beautifully crafted, incongruous to its surroundings. Created using Will, no doubt. Religious symbols are required to be by law.

We’re past in a few minutes, leaving the dilapidated residences behind us and nearing the sprawling central section of Caten. Roads widen. Houses becomes grander, interspersed with temples and statues and friezes. Coloured lanterns are everywhere, some carefully coordinated to give buildings their own distinct hues. A tapering, artistically twisting tower lit up in cool blue. An angled, polished stone monstrosity coated red. Another green, another yellow, another some deep shade of purple.

And below it all—crowding every brilliantly lit street—are people.

So many people.

Our carriage presses into the multitudes. All of Caten slopes toward the harbour, and we have an excellent vantage through the buildings. There’s motion for as far as the eye can see. Individuals, couples, families. I see stalls lining the streets, merchants red-faced in the heat as they shout their wares at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact. I see people crowding around makeshift rings that contain men circling each other, occasional fists raised in excitement as one or the other lands a blow. I see children and adults trying their hand at games of skill or chance. Food being given out. Contests of strength. Of speed. Of Will. It’s dizzying to watch, a throbbing mass of faces and bodies and movement.

There has to be ten thousand people here. More.

It’s minutes later when I tear my eyes from the window. I’ve still been answering Aequa’s questions, but absently, and it’s only now I catch a glimpse of her smug expression as she watches me be overwhelmed. I pretend not to notice.

I shouldn’t be surprised by the tumult, I suppose. The Festival of Jovan is one of the biggest celebrations in the Hierarchy; every major city holds parties in the streets, games, and produces countless lavish Will-powered displays to celebrate. I even attended once in Letens, prior to joining the orphanage. Some places give away food and drink to the crowds, all paid for by the Triumvirate—the three Princeps atop the senatorial pyramids. An expression of their generosity, of the wealth and security and greatness of Caten.

I liked taking their alms almost as little as I liked the idea of ceding, but hunger can have a tendency to trump principles, sometimes.

“Master Vis.” It’s Torvus, riding closer and leaning toward the window. “I think this is about as close as we can get.”

The carriage, which has been inching along, comes to a complete stop as it’s hemmed in by packed bodies.

“I know the way from here.” Aequa’s opening the door and disembarking before I realise what’s happening.

“Oh…” Torvus looks at me questioningly.

I give him a nonplussed look as I follow her. “Thank you, Septimus. I’ll be sure to let my father know you discharged your duties properly.”

Torvus is relieved. “If you need us, we’ve rooms reserved at the inn in Alta Semita.” He glances across at Aequa, who nods her recognition of the location. “We’ll be there until morning.”

Aequa slides away from the carriage, and I follow her into the heart of Caten. It’s claustrophobic as the structures around us loom, criss-crossing stone walkways high above covering sections of the still-fading sky. Everyone around us seems to be talking, laughing, calling out to someone in the distance. Music plays at every corner, notes discordant as they clash. It combines into a low, unsettling thunder.

I hate it. I’ve been in cities before, even during festivals, but I’ve never had to navigate a crush of bodies like this. The jostling, the heat, the smell, the noise: it’s all unpleasant, all an experience I immediately wish to be over. How can people come here, knowing it will be like this? How can they enjoy this?

I scan each face we pass, not expecting to see Sedotia or anyone else I recognise, but alert nonetheless. They all belong to strangers.

“I understand you want to know about Caeror Telimus’s suicide.”

Aequa’s words are all but shouted over the hubbub, as abrupt as the topic is unexpected. I almost choke. “I… ah.” I lean in close to make my voice as low as possible, given the circumstances. “Yes.”

“He died during the Academy Iudicium six years ago. Threw himself off a cliff. Apparently he had been acting erratically for weeks before the Iudicium started. Nearly got kicked out of Class Three because of it.” Aequa calls it as she concentrates on our path forward. Simply a recollection of well-known facts, not something she considers private. “Quintus Veridius, who’s the Principalis at the Academy now, saw it happen. They were friends. There was a terrible accident, and Caeror thought he’d killed another student who was competing. He didn’t want to face the Sappers, so…” She takes an exaggerated, hopping step forward, miming the act.

This is news. “So he killed someone?”

“Thought he’d killed them,” corrects Aequa, brushing a long strand of black hair back from her face and turning sideways so she can avoid touching a large, sweaty-looking man carrying a sack. “The Principalis thought they were dead too, but when it turned out they’d survived, he carried them back on his own. It took him almost a day. The Principalis doesn’t like to talk about it, but the story’s something of a legend at the Academy.”

The public nature of this conversation is frustrating, but no one is giving us a second glance. I suppose in many ways, Aequa’s not relating anything that’s not already widely known. “And what did the injured student say?”

“No idea. I assume they didn’t accuse the Principalis of murder, though, because he was given a Crown of the Preserver by Princeps Exesius himself. I’ve seen it. It’s on display in his office.”

I chew my lip. She’s right: an honour like that means the rescue was never under any real cloud. “Why did your father think it was worth mentioning?” Aequa doesn’t seem inclined to play the games that Advenius did. It’s worth asking directly.

“Because your father”—there’s a half breath of hesitation on the word—“spent months after trying to convince anyone who would listen that the Principalis was lying. In the end, the rest of your family had to step in and insist that he stop.” She’s still speaking loudly to be heard above the surrounding racket. “From what my father says, he just couldn’t accept what had happened. But it was very public, very bitter. Nobody’s forgotten.”

I sigh. Exactly what I’d feared, in essence. “So everyone’s going to think I’m at the Academy to get revenge on the Principalis, somehow.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Obviously not. I didn’t know about any of this.” Ulciscor must have been planning to tell me at least some of it before I left—he’d have to realise that I’d find out, once I was at the Academy. Perhaps there’s more to the story, and he just hasn’t had time to explain everything yet.

Or, perhaps, he was holding off for as long as possible, knowing what I’d deduce from the information. If I’m going to be under this much suspicion from the moment I walk into the school, then Ulciscor being the senator to adopt me seems a very poor choice indeed.

Which means he probably doesn’t have the backing of Military at all.

I feel sick, but it makes sense. This whole thing is personal for him. A crusade sparked by his brother’s death. For all I know, Military might be actively against my attending the Academy, not wanting to risk sparking an incident with Religion.

And worse—much worse, for me—is the possibility that Ulciscor is reaching for excuses. That there’s nothing going on behind the scenes there at all, that Caeror really did commit suicide. If that’s the case, then there will be nothing for me to find. Ulciscor will blame me no matter how hard I try. I’ll end up in a Sapper.

My gloomy rumination is interrupted by a blast of air that thunders down the street, and I flinch to a dead stop as a massive dark shape flits overhead. I’m the only one who reacts.

“It’s not going to kill you.”

I tear my gaze away from the disappearing Transvect to see Aequa watching me with amusement, then grunt, vaguely embarrassed. “That hasn’t been my experience with them, thus far.”

“What? Oh.” She shakes her head, admonishing herself as we start forward again. “Of course. Some kind of attack, wasn’t it? I heard about it at the Academy.” Unsurprising; I doubt the Praeceptors would have been able to keep gossip like that from spreading. “Do they know who did it?”

“No.”

“Word was, you saved your father from them.”

I snort at that. “You do know he’s a Quintus, right?”

“It’s what everyone was saying.” I don’t have time to react to the statement as Aequa points ahead. “We’re here.”

I falter, raising my eyes beyond the immediate press of bodies for the first time in a while. I’ve been so busy scanning the crowds for any sign of Sedotia that I hadn’t registered the horizon gradually disappearing. Hadn’t noticed the crush of people around us becoming a stream, all flowing inexorably in the same direction, the towering structure ahead an irresistible vortex. Arches and frescoes and grand pillars fill my vision against the dying light, stretching three hundred feet up and continuing along for at least ten times that, curving gently along its entire length. The throng splits into distinct rivulets as it approaches, each one pouring eagerly into the Catenan Arena’s belly through a dozen manned entrances.

We’ve arrived at the naumachia.