XXVI

“NOW WE GET TO SEE how you fare with imbuing,” says Tullius briskly, shading his eyes from the scorching sun as I reach him. We’re heading for the opposite side of the track this time, weaving our way between the various other tests still taking place. He considers me with a sidelong glance as I again rub absently at my chest, the pain there only seeming to have increased over the past hour. “Give yourself a moment at the beginning, Catenicus. Make sure your mind is clear. This is more mental than physical, and you’re being judged only on efficiency, not speed.”

“Thanks.” He’s gruff, but the advice sounds genuine. I’ve earned some respect with my previous performance.

We come to a stop next to a long pile of stones, arranged neatly in increasing size. Some are smaller than the one I had to hurl earlier, but the largest dozen are enormous, rough cubes that are all at least taller than me by a head. Tullius indicates the closest one, wax tablet and stylus at the ready. “Imbue this, then lift it without touching it.”

I nod, trying not to show my unease. I know, theoretically, that I can do this. But the boulder weighs at least three thousand pounds. Even having seen similar feats plenty of times before, it seems ludicrous.

I rest my hand against the stone’s brown, sun-warmed surface. It’s the largest one of the lot. That makes sense: the physical tests have given Tullius an idea of my pyramid’s strength, so he knows I have enough Will to lift this weight. But imbuing—the act of transferring Will from yourself into an object, in order to manipulate it in some way—is as much about mental acuity as strength. A poorly trained mind, as we were so constantly reminded at the Academy, can lose up to half of any transferred Will simply in making the connection. And then half again when attempting to apply it.

Efficiency, not speed. I take my time. Ignore the burden of expectant gazes from the stands and pace deliberately around the stone, committing it to memory. The academic term is retinentia: taking a mental image of the object to be imbued, learning its every line in order to make the imbuing as economical as possible. I’ve never heard anyone outside the Praeceptors call it anything so pompous, though. Amongst ourselves we just called it “memorising,” and no one ever got confused.

Satisfied, I stop and place my hand against the stone again. Carefully envisage the entire boulder, and exhale. Lock it in my mind, just as we practiced again and again and again at the Academy.

An immediate sense of connection. Of extension. Like another limb has suddenly appeared, strangely natural and unnervingly not. It’s easier than I expected, so much so that I almost lose concentration from the surprise.

I don’t move for a few seconds, mentally examining the extrasensory pulse that now emanates from the stone. There’s not meant to be any other feedback to suggest the extent of my success, no easy indication of exactly how much Will I’ve managed to imbue. Another advantage of my strange new ability, it seems.

I let my hand drop to my side. Step back. The boulder is still there, an extra appendage. Disconcertingly similar to the way I still feel my arm, sometimes.

I keep my focus razor-sharp, and command the stone to lift.

It rises.

My shock at how easily it moves is again almost dangerous to the process. It feels nothing like lifting the stone myself; my muscles don’t heave with exertion, don’t even twitch. I’m concentrating, true—concentrating fiercely—and I know from my lessons that this is how it’s meant to be. Even so, it feels unnaturally effortless. Far more akin to moving a limb than picking something up.

I watch as the boulder raises a foot off the ground. Two. Three. I can sense the weight of it: This is near the limit of my strength and just as if I was physically shifting something heavy, I can’t reposition it quickly or with sharp, start-stop motions. It’s immediately intuitive how its own momentum would make it move gradually faster if I propelled it in a single direction—but also that it would then take effort to slow down again, be impossible to stop at a moment’s notice. Natural forces aren’t obviated here. I’m simply using the strength at my command to push the thing around.

I lift the massive stone until it’s ten feet off the ground, then let it hover. Still marvelling at the simplicity of it. The Academy was geared almost entirely toward training us for this. This, more than anything else, is the ultimate application of my last eighteen months.

“High enough?” I ask it calmly. I can hear murmurs from the hillside again. People are impressed.

“Yes.” Tullius’s voice betrays no such astonishment, this time. Good. I need for people to expect me to do well, not be surprised by it.

I lower the boulder until it touches gently back to the sand, ensuring it all happens in one smooth, clean motion. I’m not sure if I’m being assessed on control, at this point, but there’s no harm in putting some on display.

“Take your Will back.” I do as instructed, touching the stone and erasing its image from my mind. The pulsing in it vanishes. It’s all very simple. All exactly as I’ve been taught.

“Now we’ll try this one… this one… and this one.” Tullius moves down the line of boulders, singling out three smaller ones of significantly differing sizes. At a glance, they probably combine to make up roughly the weight of the one I just lifted. Perhaps are even a little heavier, overall.

I meticulously examine all three again before starting. This is where things become challenging. Each stone is a different weight; I’m going to have to ration my Will unevenly between them, ensuring I imbue enough into each to lift it—but not waste too much on any single one. All while making multiple efficient connections. “Can I test how much Will they need before starting?”

“No.”

I grunt. Unsurprising, albeit annoying; in typical Catenan fashion, they’re more interested in the flair of natural ability than seeing someone succeed through trial and error. There’s some logic to it, I suppose—they’re assessing aptitude and thus potential, as opposed to work ethic or common sense—but that entire approach is unbalanced. Shortsighted. Talent, as my father used to remind me constantly, matters only when it’s married to effort.

No point in grumbling, though. I walk over to stand in front of the smallest of the three boulders; better to apportion the least amounts of Will first, and then pour everything I have left into the biggest one.

I crouch, resting my hand against the rock. Lock it in my mind, but this time, carefully envisage the strength I imagine I’ll need to manipulate it, too. It’s nebulous, feels awfully imprecise. Akin to asking someone to apply a quarter of their strength to a task—possible, certainly, but it’s on instinct rather than careful calculation. “Can I go back and adjust the amount of Will in each one before trying to lift them?”

“No.”

Of course not. The first stone done, I move on to the second and then the third boulder in slow, scrupulous succession. It’s not overly difficult to keep their images firmly in my mind—I’ve had that ability well and truly honed in me—but the added pressure of the stakes makes the process feel far more intense. The sun bakes the sand underfoot. Droplets of sweat form on my brow, threaten to trickle into my eyes. I refuse to allow the distraction of wiping them away.

As soon as I’m done, I step back. Feel all three connections. Three extra limbs, only this time each one is a different size, a different strength.

I lift.

The three boulders rise in unison, a little slower than last time but still smoothly. The heaviest one is at fault: I was too generous with my Will for the smaller two, almost didn’t leave enough in reserve. The struggle to make it rise is a strange sensation. I can feel the strain of lifting it—can feel that the Will in it is almost not enough. But it’s not a physical or mental pressure on me, not an effort in any sense of the word. Just a limitation that I’m aware of.

I stop the boulders at the same height as previously and then, at an acknowledging word from Tullius, let them down again.

“Now blindfolded.” Tullius is already moving to stand in front of me, strip of white cloth at the ready. I close my eyes as they’re covered, fiercely holding on to the image of the three stones. It’s not as difficult as I thought it would be—again undoubtedly in part due to my training, but also because the Will already in the boulders makes the mental picture easier to maintain. Their details remain sharp in my mind, even as everything around them fades to grey haze.

There’s a smattering of applause from the hill this time as I command the three boulders to elevate, hover, then settle to the ground again. I remain outwardly unaffected as Tullius removes the blindfold, but I’m relieved. Pleased, even. A Totius Sextus should certainly be able to imbue three objects at once, but doing so with minimal loss of Will is difficult—and doing it without having visual contact with the imbued objects even more so. From what I understand, even an experienced Sextus might struggle with what I just did.

I look around once I can see again, spotting Aequa still sitting where I left her. The raven-haired girl makes a face and waves a hand noncommittally at my performance, even as the clapping dies down. I snort and grin back.

The tests continue after that, but none prove any more challenging than the ones I’ve already faced. I imbue several smaller objects at once; my limit is a dozen before I start to lose significant Will to the maintenance of the connections. I imbue three identically carved rocks and manipulate them blindfolded to prove I can keep them mentally separate. I thread an imbued stone pyramid through a gauntlet of three barely wide-enough stone triangles, then imbue the triangles as well and do the same thing while making them hover. Then imbue a second pyramid and have both pass through the triangles from opposite directions simultaneously.

None of my successes are unheard of for a Totius Sextus, but I’m confident that it’s an excellent result. And whatever Veridius’s falsehoods surrounding the Academy, I realise that he was right about at least one thing. Learning to run the Labyrinth has trained me to use Will in a way no other task ever could.

The attention from the hillside continues to focus on me throughout; there are more spectators now, too, with the majority of those who have already finished their tests augmenting the crowd. I spot Indol and Iro after a while, sitting with a group of senators under a temporary awning. Indol seems to be arguing vehemently with a man who bears such a strong resemblance to Iro—down to his dark, brooding expression and prominently hooked nose—that there’s no doubting the lineage. I spot Praeceptor Nequias next to him. Strange, that he would be here.

“That was the last one.” Tullius has continued to scratch away on his wax tablet for the duration of my tests, never indicating what he thinks of my results, but after almost an hour he’s finally tucking his stylus away.

“We’re not testing Conditionals or Relationals?” The two hardest, and most powerful, types of imbuing. The types applied to the great machinery of Caten, like the Transvects.

Tullius chuckles. “Not today.” He glances around at the smattering of other assessments still being conducted on the sand. “These others will be done soon, too. Someone should be along shortly to give you your results. I imagine you will be pleased. It was a good showing, Catenicus.” Delivered without emotion, but he’s sincere.

With an acknowledging dip of the head and nothing further, he wanders off in the direction of the main building.

I head for the shade at the side of the track, conscious enough of the eyes still on me to conceal my relief, and locate Aequa. She’s sitting with Felix, who looks like he’s had time to change clothes and wash since his assessment.

“Vis.” Felix scrambles to his feet at my approach, holds out a hand. I clasp his wrist; he catches me off-guard by going further and pulling me in for a back-thumping embrace, despite my sweat-stained tunic. “Gods’ graves, it was good to see you out there today. When we left the Academy, they weren’t sure you were going to live.”

I smile at the honest emotion in his voice, despite my surprise. We were never close—friendly enough acquaintances during our time together in Class Four, I suppose, but he was also on Iro and Belli’s team in the Iudicium. “I’m glad you’re alright, too. Eidhin said you made it out, but that’s all I’d heard.”

He nods soberly as we part again, mass of unkempt black hair bobbing with the motion. “We got eliminated before the Anguis hit our safety team. Or, Iro and I did. Belli…” His expression explains her fate, even if I didn’t already know. “Veridius found her body a couple of days after it all happened.”

I grimace and pretend to accept the statement. There’s no way Veridius retrieved Belli’s corpse from where I saw it pinned to the walls of the Labyrinth—but between the presence of alupi on Solivagus and the way the Anguis massacred those they killed, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to sell the lie.

“I’m sorry about what happened out there, too. When we caught you. I should have said something.” Felix is awkward. Genuine in his apology.

I shrug; given everything else that’s happened since, our being bound and roughed up a little by a vindictive Belli seems almost trivial. And Felix has always been a follower; I can’t say his silence endeared him to me, but he was part of their team, not mine. Technically under Iro’s command. “It was hardly the worst thing to happen out there. It’s behind us.”

Felix ducks his head, relieved. He’s not the type to ignore unresolved conflict. I’m glad to see he and Aequa sitting here companionably, too; Aequa was the one to eliminate him, and I wasn’t sure whether grudges from the Iudicium would spill over into life after the Academy. Perhaps it’s just Felix’s nature, or perhaps the attack has overshadowed any potential resentment between the survivors. Given us a bond stronger than the competition. I hope it’s the latter. Some small light to take from the darkness of that time.

I gaze absently at the heat reflecting off the white sand, creating a wavering haze as the last of those still out there complete their tests. “Any word on your assignments yet?” As Domitor, I’m the only one able to request a specific position; everyone else from the Academy has to accept whatever their respective factions dictate.

“My father’s been told Caten. The rest was going to depend on today,” says Aequa. Felix indicates he’s the same.

“What about Military secondment?” Governance and Religion almost always send their graduates from the Academy to Military for ten years of service. Will ceded to the Catenan legions, and a lengthy martial education on the staff of a proconsul. Potential years away from Caten in the garrison of one distant province or another. It’s considered the standard for a continued education, and a virtual prerequisite for moving into politics.

“No word. But if it happens, Governance aren’t going to let them station us anywhere else.”

I raise an eyebrow. Just the implication that it may not happen is telling; the process isn’t enshrined in law, but the Catenans place great stock in tradition. Religion and Governance not seconding their best students to Military would be even more provocative than this event.

I’m about to pursue the topic further when there’s movement over in the stands, and I squint up to see a dozen or so people approaching. Iro and Indol are among them, but the rest of the party is made up of senators, and led by the man I picked out earlier as Iro’s father. His eyes are fixed on me.

“Telimus.” He descends stairs to the sand, comes to a stop a few feet away. It’s a pointed refusal to use the name granted me by the Senate—meant as a slight, obviously, given that he has no way of knowing how much I despise it. “I am Magnus Tertius Decimus.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Tertius Decimus,” I lie politely.

“I’ve come to ask you to relinquish your title of Domitor.” Tertius Decimus says it with calm purpose, but also loudly enough that the surrounding stands can hear.

I stare at him, sure I’ve misheard. Or misunderstood. It’s only when I see Indol in the background, looking some combination of furious and ashamed, that I understand this is real.

“No.” I’m pleased with how measured and firm I make the word, concealing the fury that’s bubbling just beneath the surface now. I don’t care what his reasons are for the absurd request. I need that title. Take it away and—among the many other disadvantages—there’s no guarantee I’ll be allowed to continue working under Tertius Ericius. I’d have to go wherever Governance decide I should be sent. Play whatever role they want me to play.

Iro’s father’s expression remains smooth. “Understand, this is not to trivialise your achievements at the Academy.” His tone says the opposite. His voice echoes across the near-silent stands, deep and harsh. “However. No one can argue that the Iudicium was compromised. And even if it had not been—it’s become clear today that you are no longer the same young man who won it. You no longer have the same potential. I know it is hard to hear, and I am sorry for your injury, but Caten is built on performance in the here and now, not our past achievements. No matter how impressive they may be.”

“You haven’t seen my test results.”

“I have eyes. You were beaten. I am not suggesting that you should not be given an earned position by Governance,” he adds, so condescendingly that it’s all I can do to keep my hands from balling into fists. “But Domitor is a singular honour, and the benefits it brings are meant to reflect ability. We should laud your achievement without compromising our pyramids, Telimus.”

I glance at Indol again. He’s red-faced, livid as he glares at the ground, unable to meet my gaze. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t agree with it at all. Why isn’t he speaking up? It’s not like him. “And I suppose you think your son should be taking my place?” I glare at Iro, who, to his credit, looks mildly uncomfortable with the exchange as well.

“Not at all. I think the result of the Iudicium should simply be ignored, and the rankings prior to that taken as final. Don’t you agree, Praeceptor?”

Nequias steps forward, the gauntness of his face somehow emphasised by his tinted glasses. He issues an unpleasant smile in my direction. “That is my opinion, Tertius. The Iudicium was tainted. Indol should be Domitor.”

“Rot that.” It’s Aequa, flushed with indignation as she scrambles to her feet. “Indol! He gods-damned saved us out there. He saved you.” Indol grimaces, but doesn’t look up.

“What is this, Decimus?” I’m relieved of having to find a response myself by Tertius Ericius’s irritated interruption. The Censor limps down the stairs, trailed by Livia as well as three other senators. Their approach draws even more eyes to us. “I hope what I’ve just been told is incorrect.”

One of the senators is Advenius, Aequa’s father, his hefty bulk unmistakeable. He wordlessly shakes his head at Aequa, who subsides furiously.

Tertius Decimus’s lip twitches, but it’s the only fracture in his composure. “It is not, Ericius. This needs to be said. The Senate may not have the courage to do the right thing, but I am hoping young Telimus will. Despite all appearances to the contrary.”

“Catenicus’s courage is not in question.” Callidus’s father bristles. It’s hard to concentrate with the two men in such close proximity; even without my ability to sense Will, I suspect the power emanating from them would be two deafening drums banging in dissonant time. “Gods’ graves, he was on his deathbed two months ago. Today has shown only how much he still deserves his status.”

“He deserves to be Domitor?” There’s a glint in Tertius Decimus’s eye. “You would be willing for him to prove that, I assume?”

A soft murmur ripples along the benches above, the conversation audible to everyone nearby. My heart drops as I see the hint of a grimace cross Tertius Ericius’s face. He steps in. Lowers his voice so that only those in the immediate vicinity can hear. “Don’t do this, Decimus. This alliance is fragile enough.”

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“No. It is to do with your personal vendetta. We’ve both lost children, Amercus,” he adds softly. “And we both still have children to lose.”

“Which is why this is necessary. The boy can keep himself safe well enough. But you know only too well that it’s those around him we have to worry about.” Iro’s father looks at me as he says the words. His stare as unruffled as it is denunciating. He’s looking for a reaction.

He gets one.

“Surely you’re not suggesting these tests are inadequate, Tertius? Because I have done everything required of me here.” I smile at him grimly. “The Iudicium was about more than simple tasks like these. It was about initiative. Teamwork. Competition. Honestly, I’m surprised I have to explain that to you.” I let cool disdain drip from the last. I learned to better control my anger at the Academy, but Callidus’s death is too recent for the man’s disgusting jab not to cut.

The Tertius smiles at me, and I know I have made a mistake.

“Competition. Competition. Yes, of course! Quite right, Telimus.” Tertius Decimus looks around at the senators behind him. “Quintus Darinus. I believe you were just extolling the virtues of chariot races as contests of Will? And as it happens, this is a circus.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amercus. They’re not plebs, and none of them have experience.” Tertius Ericius is firm. “Races are dangerous, even for the professional teams in Caten.”

“Are you suggesting the Domitor of the Academy cannot manage a single race safely?” The Tertius’s eyes bore into mine. “And as you said—no one here has the advantage of experience. Even Telimus’s arm shouldn’t hinder him as much as it would in other types of contests. It is as fair as I can make it, given his… limitations.”

I bite my tongue. He got a rise out of me already, and while I have no doubt he was well on his way to proposing something like this regardless, my talking only helped his cause. I won’t do it again.

“We don’t have time for such nonsense. Just organising for the chariots—”

“There are chariots stored right here. Weren’t you just saying that, Darinus?” The senator behind him nods, though Decimus doesn’t even bother turning to confirm it. He just smiles at Tertius Ericius. “I won’t even demand that Telimus forfeit Domitor when he loses. I simply want him to see that things have changed, and hope that understanding that might convince him to do the right thing. So there would be no official stakes. Surely you cannot object to what amounts to little more than a dash of friendly rivalry to celebrate our collaboration here.”

The hill is silent. Everyone has heard. There is no graceful way to get out of this now, and both I and Tertius Ericius know it.

“Catenicus?” Tertius Ericius’s eyes are all that reveal his frustration as he looks at me. He’s giving me the option, even though there isn’t really one.

“Of course. On one condition, though.” I turn to face Tertius Decimus squarely. Proud of how serene I make my voice. “When I win, that ends this discussion: you will publicly acknowledge me not only as Domitor, but as Catenicus. Here. In the Senate. Everywhere. If this is really about proving myself, I need to know you’re going to recognise it when I do.”

I see some people in the background hide laughs, even as others go wide-eyed at my disrespectful ultimatum. It’s improper, far too blunt for Catenan tastes. I don’t care. Either Decimus dislikes the idea enough that he refuses—giving me a way out of this—or he publicly agrees. Either way, I get something.

Tertius Decimus stiffens, and I can see several senators behind him do the same. Iro shoots me a familiar dark look. His demeanour has screamed discomfort up until now too—even he doesn’t think this is right, apparently—but his sympathy doesn’t extend to my disrespecting his father.

“Telimus,” the Tertius says eventually, “if you win, I will do all of that and more.” The faint sneer in the words says just how much chance he thinks I have of succeeding. The fact I can hear it means he’s bitter at being forced into the agreement.

Good.

“Darinus, if you could arrange for the chariots? Two teams each. Iro and Indol will represent us as one. And we’ll take the next two from whoever else had the highest scores from our graduates,” continues Decimus, without taking his eyes off me. Voice relaxed, eyes cold. “Who do you choose as your teammate, Telimus?”

“I have experience, Vis.” I look up at the new voice calling out from nearby. It’s Marcellus, watching on from the stands nearby. He’s still sweating from his tests, but looks painfully eager.

“No.” I don’t even have to think about it. I say it to him, make eye contact. Ensure he understands that it’s not because he’s in Religion but because I’m refusing him, personally, no matter how good he is at racing chariots. Then I turn back to Iro’s father. “I’ll take Aequa.”

I say it without thinking, then hesitate and glance back at her. She nods her approval.

“Then it’s settled,” says Tertius Ericius, sounding as displeased as I feel as an excited susurrus sweeps through the crowd. He sighs, turning to Aequa and me. “Come on, then. Let’s find our second team, and get you two prepared.”