It was just Libro's luck. It seemed that everytime something good happened to him, life found a way to mess it all up again. As if The Seven were playing some cruel joke on him for their own amusement. He could picture them now sitting there all smug upon their golden thrones.
“Give the boy a decent mother,” one of them would say. “But make sure his father’s a complete ass.”
“And while you’re at it,” another would add. “Why not give them both the Green Fever come four years later? A good way to balance things out.”
“But what of the boy? What will we do with him?”
“Why, we’ll ship him off to the Orphonarium of course! He’ll make a fine Tribune one day.”
“But he is a coward.”
And then one of the Seven would stroke their muzzle knowingly and smile. “Exactly.”
Pressed tight amidst a throng of unwashed bodies, it was hard for Libro not to daydream. He and the other Centum’s were packed in one of the many abandoned homes, a good two hundred all together, jostling for room. He reckoned they all looked a tad silly, but it was far safer in here then it was out there. The streets were pouring with rebels now, wielding a citizen’s arsenal of tools and improvised weapons.
Cent stood pressed against a window, spyglass glinting as he searched for a way out. The house they'd so graciously occupied crested on an incline directly before the Bosba Channel, a good lookout spot the other Centums had agreed upon and Libro was inclined to agree with them.
He shoved his way towards the Cent, apologizing everytime he was forced to step over someone's boots. Most were keen to move out of the way, some even polite enough to nod back at him, but that was the minority. He had a distinct feeling that the other Centum’s didn't much approve of him being there. If only Culter had stuck around. The albino may have been a crude man, but he had a way of keeping people in line.
“That’s a rather macabre sight if I’ve ever seen one." Cent lowered his spyglass and tapped Libro across the chest, a look of reverent awe plastered over his face. “Guess that means we’re getting close.”
“Let me see,” Libro demanded. Cent passed the spyglass over. He held the contraption to his eye, looking where the Centum had pointed too, jaw going slack.
“It’s the bloody fecking bridge,” Cent hissed in his ear.
“The Sanguine Arch.” Libro nervously swallowed. It was a wonder just to look at it again after all the years he’d been gone. Red bricks gleamed like polished rust in the morning sunlight, black iron support struts clinging to the stones like ivy. The bridge was like a thick, red vein running across the channel, a figurative lifeline that connected both halves of the city together.
“I’ve heard some pretty nasty rumors about that bridge,” Cent muttered, jaw clenched. “Heard the mortar they used was mixed with traitor's blood. Those lucky enough to avoid the pyre at least.”
“Rumor has it they used their bones as well,” another Centum added.
“All right.” Libro slapped his spyglass shut. “I think that's enough for superstitions. The Sanguine Arch is just a bridge, bloody stones or not. We should be crossing the damn thing, not gawking at it.”
Cent’s brows shot straight up at that, a murmur of contention rippling through the crowded room. “Begging your pardon Tribune, but you don’t mean we’re crossing that bridge, now did you?”
Libro glared up at the man. “That’s what I said didn’t I?”
The Centum’s eyes boggled. “Certainly, though there must be other bridges we could cross. The arches are,” The man fumbled for his words. “A rather large target. No doubt the rebels would be keeping a keen eye on it."
“The Sanguine Arch is the quickest and easiest path towards the palace,” Libro reminded him. “If we can get across, it would lead us directly to the Empress. It’s our only option.”
“I...yes...well,." Cent blustered more and more as he tried to come up with more excuses. Luckily, someone else decided to do that for him.
“The bridge is cursed, boy,” A big man with a long, bushy green beard said. He had an even bigger ax across his back, body wrapped up in bits of and bobbles of armor that would've looked clownish were it not for the hard look in his eyes.
“Cursed?” Libro couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Centum’s feared to cross because the bridge because it was cursed? What utter nonsense. What childish superstition. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I don’t joke about these types of things,” Green Beard growled. “You heard what was said. Blood was used to make that bridge. Men's blood. And their bones and their souls for all we know. The whole thing’s as foul as they come. A testament to the Empress’ true calling,” He spat on the ground. “Bloody butchery.”
“How dare you!” Libro shoved his way over to Green Beard. “You're a guardsmen of the Empire. You don’t speak of the Empress like that.” It took two very cramped strides for Libro to realize the Centum was a lot taller than he was. And a lot bigger too. The man towered over him practically, eyes narrowed in a harsh glare.
“I call them as I see them, boy.” Green Beard leaned in close till his nose was a hands span away from Libro. “And no one’s gonna tell me otherwise. You can swallow up as much imperial dogma as you want, but you best be keeping it to yourself, or next time things are going to get nasty.”
Libro backed away. He should have said something about that, something witty towards the hairy braggart towering over him, but the words just weren’t quite there at the moment. Green Beard had a look in his eye that didn't leave much to the imagination, pupils like two thin pin pricks. Just looking at them made his guts go cold.
“Well?” Green Beard hissed. “You got something to say, boy?”
“I...um,” Libro faltered.
“All right Moss, we get it. That’s enough,” Cent stepped in front of Libro. “Leave the Tribune alone.”
Moss grunted in disgust and straightened up, hands wedged into his armpits. “You call this whimpering dog a Tribune? I’ve seen Greenboys with more spine than him.”
Cent rolled his eyes. “He’s the Chronicler for Nido’s sake. The lad just hasn’t seen enough action yet. You don’t throw historians into battles for no good reason, you daft idiot!”
“Then they shouldn’t have named him Tribune,” Moss shot back. “There are others here better suited to carry such a title.”
“Like who?” Cent took an aggressive step towards Moss. Libro watched, eyes wide, as the Centum reached for the ax at his side. He wasn’t planning on using it was he? Not against his own brother. Things were getting out of hand. He needed to say something, anything, but he found himself merely standing there, frozen in place like some useless statue.
“Like me!” Moss barked, spitting phlegm onto his beard. “Or you, or anyone else here.” The Centum jabbed a filthy finger at Libro. “But not him. Not that spineless little shit.”
“You going against the Captain’s orders now?” Cent’s ax slithered out of the strap with a quiet menace. He grasped it in both hands, sharpened edge pointed directly at Moss. “Is that it?”
Moss stood there for a moment, gaze flicking between Cent and the ax. “I got a right to speak my mind, brother.”
“And I’ve got a mind to chop those bloody lips right off your flapping face. Cause from where I’m standing, it sounds like you're questioning who the Captain keeps as Tribunes around here.”
Moss started to waver. His hard frown settled into a grimace, his once hard eyes now soft with doubt. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Course you fecking won’t.” Cent stepped aside, pointing a finger at Libro. “I trust our Tribune. I trust our Captain. Any of you who start doubting now are gonna find a rebel’s blade in your guts or my ax in your back. We’re all in this together now. We knew this the moment we took the oath. Got that?”
The others were quick to agree. Even Moss nodded, albeit begrudgingly. Cent turned to Libro, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “All right then Chronicler. What’s the plan?”
The plan? Libro pursed his lips, teeth grinding together as he tried to come up with something. In the end his answer was still the same. “We cross the bridge.”
Cent nodded, regarding everyone else with a hard look. “And so we shall.”
The dark, brackish waters of the Bosba looked even more dangerous up close. As he marched across the bridge, he finally fathomed just how bottomless it was, how evil and hungry the channel seemed as it roared beneath the archways, white sea foam churning into great, slimy serpents.
Just looking at it made his head hurt, dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He felt impossibly tired all of a sudden, and yet his heart thundered in his chest as if he were back running laps at the Orphanarium. It was a terrible feeling all around, the kind that left his fingers numb, toes cramping in his boots, blood frozen in his veins.
“Breathe,” Dux’s words called back to him. He sucked in a lungful, felt his chest expand till his stomach was pressing into his chains. Then he let go and the old air slithered out in a heavy, hissing sigh. He felt a little better then. The ache in his head slowly dissapated.
“You all right?” He heard Cent asking. The man peered down at him with one curious brow raised.
“Yes, quite so, thank you.” Libro puffed his chest out, for all the good it did. He felt like an ugly duckling amidst a gaggle of swans, and no amount of ruffled feathers was going to change that.
“Ah, all right.” Cent went back to marching, whistling a tune that was barely audible over the stamping of boots. Down below a swell of water slapped against the side of the bridge, sweeping mist up into the air and showering over the arches.
Libro chewed at his bottom lip, their combined silence becoming almost too much to bear. “I wanted to thank you,” He finally blurted out. “For what you said back there.”
“Think nothing of it,” Cent said. “Just doing my solumn duty.”
“I’m still grateful though,” Libro pressed, heart fluttering with every embarrassed word that came tumbling out. “Things could have turned ugly had you not intervened.”
Cent shrugged. “That’s just how Moss is. Always been quite the blowhard, but if you tell it to him straight enough, he’ll usually backs off. Usually.”
“Ah,” Libro nodded along. “I know a few people who fit in that category.”
“Then you should know it takes a firm hand for something like that. Only two kinds of people in this world,” Cent said as he counted on his fingers. “Those that take orders and those that need some convincing. Unfortunately there’s a lot in the Guard who fit the latter and not the former.”
“I see.” And here Libro thought he was done being lectured to. After years of listening to his instructors drone on and on about battle strategy and logistics, he’d hoped to never hear another lesson again. He almost opened his mouth to say so, but thought it better not too. Cent had done him a kindness twice now. First at the Forum, then back at the lookout. If he was going to survive, he would need people to rely on. And sometimes that meant keeping your trap shut.
Someone nudged Libro. He turned, noticed one of the Centum’s standing beside him, arm outstretched, a small nut resting in the palm of his hand.
“Snack?” The man asked.
Libro frowned at the meager morsel and shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The Centum shrugged and stretched his hand out to Cent. “Snack?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Cent plucked the nut between two fingers and tossed it into his mouth with an audible crunch. “Ah, a Rogaland Oak,” he said reverently as he chewed. “Almost forgot what they tasted like. Thanks Fig.”
Fig shrugged again and shuffled off. No doubt dispensing treats to the others, Libro mused. The thought made his stomach gurgle. Perhaps it would have been wise to have taken the morsel after all.
“Now, as much as I hate agreeing with the bastard,” Cent continued as he picked bits of nut from his teeth. “Moss does have a point. You’re as green as they come, lad.”
“As if I need to be reminded,” Libro said, chuckling at his poor attempt of a joke. “But, as you stated before, I’m just the Chronicler. It’s not as if I want to be green,” although he had to admit the benefits were rather nice. “The fact of the matter is that I’m not meant for the frontlines. I record the battles, not fight them.”
“The fact of the matter,” Cent urged. “Is that you’re a fecking Tribune, boy, whether you like it or not, and you best start acting like one quick, before it ain’t just Moss griping. You may be just a Chronicler, but what we need right now is a Tribune, and unfortunately that falls on you.”
Cent’s words sent a chill down Libro’s spine. Last time he’d tried to do any sort of leading he nearly got his skull caved in by a rock. Got a good punch in the face for it as well. Left his whole jaw rattling, and that had been from Civis, a man twice as small than those in present company. He could only imagine what the Centums would do to him if he messed up again.
“What am I supposed to do?” he found himself asking.
“Same as everyone else,” Cent said nonchalantly. “ You figure it out.”
“And what if I can’t?” Libro hated how his voice sounded. Like a child whimpering at his father’s feet. At the very least Cent was listening to him. At the very least he wasn’t calling him a coward. At the very least he wasn’t beating him.
Cent gave a dismissive shrug. “Then you die. Plain and simple.”
Libro blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Cent smiled, flashing a set of teeth as checkered as the Vangen standard. “Life don’t give you second chances, so you either learn quick, or you end up as worm food. That’s just the way it’s been.”
His assurance dropped on Libro like a heavy stone. “Ah, right.” And here he thought it was going to be easy. As long as he didn’t die he’d be like the Captain in no time. He snorted at the thought. What a juvinile way of thinking.
The conversation ended as Cent padded off to talk to the others. It seemed whatever life lessons he had left for Libro would have to wait. He occupied himself by staring off into the distance, wondering how much longer they'd left to cross the bridge. Something curious caught his eye then, trailing off in the distance.
A column of smoke rose from the city skyline, soaring through the sky till it faded in wispy, white line. Libro followed the trail to a dark speck sailing through the air. From such a height it was impossible to tell what it was, but the more he stared at it, the more it grew in shape, and to his horror, in size as well.
Realization came to him like a slap across the face. It was a boulder. A flaming boulder, and a large one at that, careening through the sky like a meteor, heading straight towards them.
“Get down!” he screamed, too late as it sailed over his head, smashing into the bridge behind him.
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