The Eventide Child Read Free Page B

for persecution or pointless bickering when one had lost all there was to lose. Enemies and friends shared and shared alike. Old Gods, the Messiah, and even stranger, far off religions were all represented in the slums of Tripolis. Nothing mattered anymore.
    The whining groan of chains grabbed her attention as the gate cranked open and the large metallic bars lifted from the efforts of the gatekeepers. A flood of soldiers rushed out, their capes billowing behind them, their sharp whistle bringing pain to her ears. They lined up in formation, parting only at the center as several well-dressed figures stomped forward. Their cart stopped, Alexandra watching the scene with a keen eye and inquisitive mind.
    “Right! Listen up you lot! I got twenty work orders! Means access to the fuckin’ city behind me, but it’s not pretty work. Hard labor. Ya’ll hardly make a dime, but ya’ll get in.”
    Not even Caius held a tongue so vulgar. Alexandra wondered if all men in the city were so crass, though her father's grimace told her that it might not have always been so. She turned back to the display, to the stout little man who’s pudgy, sausage like fingers clutched a handful of parchment slips. Work orders.
    There was an immediate clamor as refugees surged forward, only for a whistle to sound again as the Legionnaires closed ranks and their tower shields created an impenetrable wall
    “ORDER! ORDER I SAY!” the Centurion cried. A refugee made a run for the work orders hoping to steal one, only to be met with a swift jab from a spear. His stomach ruptured and blood gushed out.
    “This is what war does.” She heard her father’s words, and her stomach churned when the man’s entrails spilled from his body and the Legionnaires pushed him back into the crowd. Suddenly, the city did not seem so glamorous. Silence fell. Order was restored and the deceased man was removed from sight.
    The men who were selected collected their work orders and shuffled inside, then the crowd slowly dispersed as the Legionnaires retreated back beyond the gate. Her father gave a nod, the mule pulling the cart forward once more. She was silent, concentrating her effort on keeping her bile down.
    “State your business!”
    “Trade,” her father replied. His strong hand gestured at the wool and the collected jugs, which stored the milk. Likewise, his other hand lifted a Writ of Trade. Men would kill for such a thing. Often a Writ of Trade was the only thing that could open the gates of a city. It was like a key to all the cities in all the provinces.
    “Right. All seems to be in order.”
    The Legionnaire’s arm flew up, pumping his fist three times as the creaking of the wheel screeched once again and the chains strained to hoist the metal gate open. The Legionnaire’s poured out again, this time forming around the cart as their shields pointed out. There was a whistle and the donkey crept forward and through the gates.
    The churning in her gut was quickly replaced with that sense of splendor once again as her eyes absorbed all there was to take in. The sights, the sounds, the smells... Gods, the smells! Some were foul, and yet others were so sweet and tempting. The city of Tripolis stood in stark contrast to the shanty town that had formed around it. Everything inside was clean and pristine, and people went too and fro. Along one street, she saw the group of men recruited as they hauled  stone to a construction site not far off.
    “Welcome to Tripolis.” His rough voice reached her ears, but she was too enamored with everything around her. Her eyes fell briefly upon a group of girls her age, passing by the cart wearing the most elegant of clothing and she could only stare on in envy. Finery. It was a luxury she could never afford and one which a shepherd girl ill needed. Could life have been different if they’d lived in the city? If father had become a merchant instead of a shepherd? Still, she could sense her father’s unease. His eyes shot